


on falling, gracefully

by temporalDecay



Series: gravity and other universal laws [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adaar's never ending list of things to do in the hinterlands, Cassandra's disgusted noise, Dorian Pavus' inability to not lash out blindly at everything, Dragons, F/F, F/M, Friends to Lovers, From Sex to Love, M/M, Sera's allergic reaction to anything magical, Slow Burn, The Iron Bull's massively understated denial, and did I mention the dragons?, cole's uncanny ability to say the right thing at the worst possible time, dragon slaying is a legitimate therapeutic activity, i would like to personally apologize to everyone rilienus has offended, lots and lots of dragons, terrible metaphors that make Varric's heart happy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-09-02 09:01:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 85,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8660767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalDecay/pseuds/temporalDecay
Summary: Dorian's always believed that if you must fall, you should at least do so gracefully.Bull doesn't much fall, as stumble awkwardly into things, but he's nothing if not good at making the best of it.





	1. the vint and the dragon

**Author's Note:**

> So, all this started because I was playing The Descent and all the ridiculous platforming to get the gears got me thinking that if someone was reckless enough to figure out the math behind that kind of magic, it'd be Dorian. And Dorian would totally teach the Inquisitor how to do that, much to the horror and distress of pretty much everyone else. Fairly straightforward premise, that.
> 
> Except it's me, so of course it's not.
> 
> So here you go, a new monstrosity following the plot of the main game, though it'll deviate somewhat as it goes along, because I will fucking give these ridiculous morons a happy ending even if it kills me.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Iron Bull watches the Vint up until he becomes Dorian, but it's okay, because that's his job. (No, it's not.)

  


* * *

  


_i. the vint and the dragon_

  


* * *

  


Adaar likes the Vint more than him. 

Bull doesn't take it personally, not really. He remembers the way her eyes widened hilariously and her skin turned sickly green, when he told her who he was, like she was staring at the sum total of her fears made flesh. 

_Ben-Hassrath._

She's Vashoth, and a Saarebas at that. 

Of course she'd looked at him like he was the most terrifying thing in the world, but then, before Bull could decide on what to say to mitigate the reaction, she'd swallowed hard and asked in a steady voice about what that meant. She'd earned his respect, then, and despite making choices he doesn't really approve of since then, she's continued to amass it, particularly after the mess in Haven and the tortous road to Skyhold. She's got a solid head on her shoulders, Adaar, always quiet and attentive, listening to as much as she can, before making a choice. But once she makes one, she commits to it. She doesn't ask of others, what she's not willing to do herself, and she treats those around her with respect and consideration. Bull watches her – watches everyone really, because that's his job, but he's surprised by how much he _enjoys_ watching her – seeking those little bursts of fear and nervousness, at the edges of the serene aplomb she projects to the world. He thinks he likes her all the more because of them, to be honest. And he does like her wit, subtle and deadpan, hidden beneath that pool of solemn quiet she wears around herself like a cloak. He wonders if she thinks she has to, for the sake of the Inquisition, but then he sees her eyes glint just a little as it takes whoever she's speaking with a moment to realize they're being snarked at, and the thin-lipped smile carefully devoid of delight as they flounder about for a suitable reply. He's near convinced it's a pastime of sorts, a little game to keep herself sane as the world slowly spins out of control into madness all around them. 

He _likes_ her, is the thing, beyond simply approving of her. It's not his job to like her. He's not quite sure what his job really will be – he's played this song and dance for far too long, to be naive enough to think that watching will be the end of it; he will be asked to act, at some point, and he's not sure he'll _like_ that. But, he thinks, remembering the scent of smoke and blood soaked in deep into Seheron's streets, liking is not a requirement for duty. 

Still, the fact is he likes the Inquisition and he likes Adaar, but while the Inquisition certainly likes him better, she still prefers the Vint. 

Bull has resolved to be nice to him, just to spite himself. 

The Vint, in true Vint spirit, has taken to sneer little bitter quips back. 

Bull drawls innuendos in his best teasing voice and assures himself it's not just because he likes the way it makes the Vint twitch like a wet cat. 

  


* * *

  


“You're being petty,” Adaar says, slouching into the library at a lazy, almost slugish pace. “About Bull.” 

Dorian has seen her fight, from up close, during their little misadventure through time and later on, as he found himself given the dubious honor of accompanying her along her little quests out into the wilderness as part of her 'Inner Circle'. Dorian will forever laugh in the face of whoever calls her anything but deadly. He doesn't even know how truly powerful she is – it's a little harder to gauge that normal, what with the literal reality-bending Artifact of Doom embeded in her palm – but even without that, Dorian would need to be blind, to not see the potential. She's witty and self-assured in a quiet way that most fools never notice. Unflinchingly polite even as the meaning behind her words is anything but, and a deadpan snarker after his own heart. 

As things settle awkwardly into place, after Haven, Dorian becomes more and more convinced that he might have joined the Inquisition because it was flat out the right thing to do, but that he actually stays because Adaar is quite possibly the Maker's last gift to the world. 

“I am a petty man,” Dorian replies, smiling placidly at her. “Very pretty, too, but fundamentally, at the core, _petty_. I'm sincerely offended that you think the Iron Bull can make any claims to be responsible for _that_.” 

“You still look at him how _I_ looked at him, in the beginning,” she says, gracefully side-steps his taunts. 

She always does that. In truth, he doesn't have much to taunt her about, beyond her increasing curriculum filled with brave acts of heroism and quiet shows of kindness. He's fairly certain, given how she answers to it, that she understands he means it as praise. Most of the time, anyway. He is not lying to her, after all. He _is_ extremely petty, and she's so good at snarking back that sometimes he can't quite help himself. 

He's a terrible person, he's quite aware, but then, that's not really a secret, either. 

“I don't remember any clause in my contract stating I must like every desperate, vicious fanatic you bring into the fold,” he says, and conceeds her a few extra points in the mental scoreboard, when he realizes he sounds pretty defensive about it. 

“I'm not asking you to like him,” she replies, one eyebrow arched teasingly, and he marvels somewhat, at the lack of threat behind the gesture. “I think you _would_ like him, if you got to know him better, but that's irrelevant and explicitly none of my business. But I want you to fight effectively with him.” Dorian opens his mouth to protest, but then closes it with a small wince when he realizes she has an actual point. “Take a leaf out of Vivienne's book, if you must, Maker knows she's entirely willing to let anyone know what she thinks,” Dorian barks a snort, despite himself, and Adaar gives him a wry, little smile that reminds him, yet again, why he's stayed, “but not in the field, Dorian.” She sobers up, somewhat, but her next words disarm him, “not where it can get _you_ killed.” 

It's disturbing, he thinks, how much he can't tell if she's saying the right things because they're the right things to bend him to her will, or because she truly believes them. Or rather, it's disturbing how much he hopes it's the second, for all the most likely thing is the first. Nonetheless, he offers a theatrical sigh and nods. 

“I shall do my very best, Inquisitor,” he offers, surprised at his own eagerness to compromise. 

Adaar grins. 

“Good,” she says, and just like that, she's no longer the Inquisition personified, all dignity and leaderly concern, but rather something sharper and brighter that Dorian can't seem to get enough of. “Because I think I just puzzled out that stupid doubles-or-nothing Tevinter rule for Wicked Grace, and I'm determined to win back my dignity.” 

Dorian finds himself grinning back. 

“You do realize it's not really dignity, if you can lose it that easily, right?” 

Adaar laughs, and in his heart of hearts, Dorian is strangely certain it will all be alright in the end. 

He hopes so, anyway. 

  


* * *

  


“Well, that was positively wretched.” 

Bull grunts under his breath, despite himself, because the Vint might have a point. He's not talking to him, of course – he's moved past pithy, inflammatory remarks to a stubborn, irritable silence, but Bull is magnanimous enough to consider that it might just be because the pungent, muddy waters of the Fallow Mire don't sit well with him, rather than the Vint being literally five years old and inflicting the silent treatment on him – but Adaar for once doesn't reply with a witty deadpan. 

Bull looks up to see her face pale beneath the vitaar on her skin, fingers clutching her staff tightly. 

“Oh, for the love of-” The Vint snaps, scowling thunderously when she flinches, “I'm _fine_ , you great big child!” He offers her a gallant grin, the kind that gives some credence to his claims of being handsome and dashing. “Barrier took most of the hit, see?” He pats his chest reassuringly, and bit by bit, Adaar's shoulders relax a sliver. “Now stop looking at me like I'm the evil Magister who ate your puppy, please. I shall be forced to do something dire, otherwise, like hugging you, and I do not fancy dying poisoned by that ridiculously bloodpaint of yours.” There is a pause. “At least not in this godforsaken hell pit.” 

“I _hate_ demons,” Adaar says at last, with feeling, tension effectively difussed. “A lot.” 

“Yes, well,” the Vint says, speaking over Bull's quietly sincere _hear, hear,_ “if it's any consolation, I do reckon the feeling might be entirely mutual.” 

“ _That'd be a first_ , bitter, sad, resigned,” Cole pipes up, hunched over studying a particularly thick bundle of blood lotus growing by the edge of the water. “There's laughter there, beneath the hurt, reaching out and swallowing it whole. She understands loss, he almost never misses it anymore.” 

The silence stretches, wide and yawning and awkward. The Vint sighs so hard his shoulders slump. Bull almost laughs. 

“...yes,” Adaar says, without rancor, “thank you, Cole.” 

  


* * *

  


The Fallow Mire is a resounding victory for Adaar, despite the Avaar and the undead. They rendezvous with Cassandra's group in the Hinterlands – also a great success for Adaar, even if she wasn't there personally to handle it – and trade stories about their respective tasks while they prepare for the long trek back to Skyhold. Cassandra and the others made short work if the stragglers among the apostates that refused to fold when Adaar offered the rebel mages an alliance – still a terrible fucking idea, in Bull's humble opinion, but no one's asked for it, so he keeps it mostly to himself – and the ragtag teams of templars still trying to hunt them down for no nobler reason than the fact they've come to enjoy hunting mages. 

The Vint complains bitterly about the inhospitable bog, the undead, the dastardly soup their quartermasters served them morning, noon and night, and anything else he can think of. Bull's gotten used to it, though, so he's starting to see layers to it. The Vint's complaining is... a performance, he's realized. A diversion. He never complains about anything that could be considered actually important and never fails to whine incessantly about every petty little thing he can think of. But when pushing comes to shoving, the Vint is always strangely quiet. Bull notices he complains about undead, but not the demons. There's no denying the undead are dangerous, but they're not particularly threatening, and once they figured out to stay away from the water, they were barely even a nuisance. 

The Vint says nothing about the spindly fear demon that sprung up at his feet and nearly cleaved him in two, which to Bull's calculations, should rank a little higher in the annoyance scale. 

Bull watches him, because it's his job to watch him – and everyone else, of course – but also because his curiosity is piqued. He pays special attention to the constant stream of chatter that comes out of his mouth, but it's all perfectly irrelevant and carefully tailored to annoy whoever's listening. 

Bull can't very well write a report telling his superiors about this newly found detail about the Vint, if he can't follow up with the reasoning behind that kind of conduct. That's why he's here, after all, because he's good at listening and lying and hitting things, but also because he's good at figuring out the meaning behind everything. 

He decides to hold back on including the Vint in the reports, then, at least until he's figured him out properly. 

It shouldn't take too long, anyway. 

  


* * *

  


“Well that's just rude,” Dorian mutters under his breath, watching the scene play out in the main hall from the comfort of the balcony Vivienne has claimed for herself. “He could have at least taken the time to get the blood out of the goat, first. That was just unnecessary animal cruelty.” 

Madame Vivienne de Fer, First Enchantress of Montsimmard and Imperial Enchanter, does not _snort_. She merely... produces a sound that is infinitely more dignified and yet conveys the exact same meaning. Dorian is reluctantly willing to admit he's impressed. 

“Animal cruelty, Lord Pavus?” She asks him, standing by his side, but not actually leaning on the railing like he is, because of course she wouldn't do something so crude. Dorian marvels a little at the way she can speak to him with the utmost propiety and still somehow convey endless stream of vitriol. He might need to step up his game against her, and that realization is as exciting as resolving a snag in one of his theories. “Is that where you draw the line?” 

Dorian sees the slight tilt in her mouth, the set of her chin. She's proud, Vivienne, and she's proud because, unlike him, she had to work hard to get everything she has. He supposes it's understandable that she would feel such disdain for him, considering how much of who he appears to be was simply thrust upon him by the accident of his birth. 

“I draw the line at cruelty in general,” he replies, despite it all, amused at the slight narrowing of her eyes that lets him know he caught her unprepared. “I believe the world has more than its share of it, and to add any more to it is both worthless and fundamentally stupid.” 

“That's a surprising perspective,” Vivienne says, after the hall below bursts into murmurs as the Inquisitor offers her judgment: exile to Tevinter, with as many weapons as the Avaar clan can take. Typical Adaar, that, Dorian thinks, as he makes sure his smile doesn't falter when Vivienne adds: “For one hailing from the Imperium.” 

“We're not Orlais, Madame de Fer,” Dorian says, smirking just a sliver, “we don't indulge in excess simply to prove a point. The South has been kind enough to teach us the foolishness of that.” 

It's bad form, to walk away from the duel and claim victory that way, but they're bringing up Alexius for his turn, and Dorian knows for a fact Vivienne would never let him live it down, if he threw up all over himself. 

This isn't home, they still have standards for and expectations of him, after all. 

Dorian walks away and pretends a little harder than usual, that he doesn't care about anything at all. 

  


* * *

  


“Here,” Bull offers, holding out a hand to Sera. “Up you go,” he adds, hoisting her up until she's sitting on the crook of his arm. 

She squirms like an eel for a moment, before shuddering. 

“Nope, nope, nuh-huh, put me down,” she says, scowling. 

“But-” 

“Down!” She insists, glowering a little, “or I'm hanging off your horns all the way back to camp.” 

Bull considers letting her, but she looks uncomfortable and that right there is a look he decides he doesn't like on her. So, very gently, he puts her back down on the ground. He notices Adaar looking at her, lips pressed tight. He thinks she's going to offer next, but then something wilts, just a little, and the Vint sighs loudly. 

“Oh very well,” he mutters, stepping forward with a wry smile on his face. “Think you can stand the _evil_ Maleficar giving it a try, Sera?” When she squints at him, he pointedly doesn't look at Adaar, and something clicks in Bull's head, half amused, half thoughtful. “I mean, I do feel responsible, after all.” 

“You better!” Sera snorts, but cautiously raises her hands as he crouches in front of her, presenting his back. 

No one points out it was only the Vint's barrier that saved her from a broken neck, when she got flung into that tree. A sprained ankle and a bump on her head are considerably tamer by comparison. 

“Well,” the Vint grunts, standing up a little unsteadily as Sera clings to his back, “that's one mystery solved.” 

He's holding his staff behind his back like a seat, arms hooked around her legs to hold her steady. 

“If you drop me, you're _dead_ ,” Sera hisses, wrapping her arms so tightly around his neck it's a miracle he can still breathe. 

“What, and bring the wrath of the Inquisition on my head for depriving them of your endless charm?” He teases, and Bull is quite certain the joke is not aimed at Sera, more so when Adaar looks casually unruffled. Too casually unruffled, for it to be true. _Huh_. “Perish the thought.” 

They make it three quarters to camp, before Sera speaks up again, squinting at the back of the Vint's head. 

“What mystery?” She asks, suspicious. 

“Beg your pardon?” He replies, roused from whatever murky thoughts occupy his mind. 

“You said there was a mystery solved, back there,” Sera says, eyes narrowed into a squint that makes her nose twitch. “What wassit?” 

“Oh,” he replies, sly smirk tugging at his lips, “nothing much. Just figured where all those potatoes the quartermaster was looking for went to.” 

He even wiggles his eyebrows a little, not that Sera can actually see them. 

“Arse!” 

  


* * *

  


Dorian stares at Sera and her awkwardly stretched out hand. 

“You... got me leaves?” He ventures, squinting a little at the bundle of bruised, green stalks with slightly wilted blue-green leaves. “Royal elfroot leaves?” He adds, not quite sure he's got it right, and still no closer to deciphering _why_. 

Sera looks vaguely constipated and supremely uncomfortable. 

“It's a gift,” she says, unnecessarily and also very unhelpfully, and shakes her hand a little, clearly expecting Dorian to take them. 

“...thank you?” He tries, tentatively grabbing the severely abused specimens. “May I ask what prompted this?” 

Sera folds her arms over her chest, defensive, and then throws her shoulders back, as if preparing for battle. Dorian really hopes she doesn't actually _start_ one, though he would hardly put it past her. 

“Stuff,” she says, in a tone that should be eloquent, but leaves much to be desired. “And shit, you know, the magicking. It's rat's piss, is what it is, but you didn't have to. And you did anyway. So there,” she adds, with a solemn tone and a wrinkled nose. “We're even now.” 

Dorian watches her stomp out of the camp with a bewildered look on his face. The stalks are ruined, obviously, and what little juice remains in them is not enough to use in any decent concoction. But the leaves are oddly pretty. Dorian presses them between the pages of his book, not quite sure what else to do with them, but also strangely unwilling to simply throw them away. 

_You're a sad, sad man, Dorian Pavus_ , he tells himself, sitting by the fire and fingering one of his new bookmarks with a wry, self-deprecating smile, _if you're still so unwilling to relinquish even the smallest thing you're given_. 

  


* * *

  


Bull studies the mages of the inner circle. 

He doesn't particularly like magic, but Adaar is a mage and she's surrounded herself with far less than Bull would have expected, despite her insane declaration to accept the rebel mages as her allies. Still, the ones she has gathered are... interesting. 

There's Solas, of course, quiet and vicious and indifferent, much like a storm striking a trading port. And the metaphor, Bull insists to himself, is not predicated entirely on his blatant favoritism for lightning spells. Just like a storm doesn't much care about the lives it ruins when it smashes into port and reduces boats and homes into splinters, Solas seems to hold himself above everything, seemingly uncaring of the consequences of his actions. Adaar is slowly thawing him out, because of course she is; Bull's pretty sure they've yet to meet someone who doesn't like her that doesn't also turn out to be inherently evil, mad or both. But still, he's met enough people who look down at others and don't rightly see them as people, to not recognize the quiet, contemplative look that takes over Solas' face, sometimes. Even so, he's mostly alright, Bull figures, perfectly content to keep his magic and his spirit thing to himself, and maybe Cole, sometimes. 

Then there's Viv, who Bull finds he likes almost as much as he likes Adaar. He likes to joke that the horn-like headdress and the self-assurance make him bow out of habit, but there's more than the ghost of a Tamassran to her, that makes him feel strangely at ease in her presence. Viv _gets_ it, and it puts Bull's soul at ease, that she does. She might not know the words or follow the precepts, but in her own way, she's found something quite similar to the Qun to guide her steps. She believes in order and discipline, and he finds a kindred spirit in her that makes him genuinely respect her and her portentous dignity. That, of course, and the fact she has made it a habit to freeze solid any kind of fool or demon or both, as soon as they're within striking distance of Bull's ax, and he still hasn't gotten tired of the sound they make when he shatters them with one, heaving swing. Rightful music, that, and the way she smiles indulgently at him afterwards makes him certain she knows it too. 

Finally, there's the Vint. The Vint drives Bull crazy, and not always in the fun way just 'cause he's real pretty to look at. He's vicious and loudspoken, seemingly incapable of keeping his thoughts away from his mouth. There's something bitter and aching in him, hastily wrapped in sneering wit for the sake of pretending it doesn't hurt anymore. That much, Bull gets. But that's also the point he stops getting it. Him. 

The Vint is powerful. Deeply so. But it's not arrogant, distant power, like Solas', or grandiose, overwhelming might, like Viv's. The Vint focuses on defense, most of the time, casting barriers with thoughtful, methodical and precise timing, even when he makes a flourish of raining fire or ice or lightning on their enemies. Bull has lost count of the times he should have rightly been cleaved in half by some demon or templar or whatever the fuck else has it in for them. The barriers hold. They shatter after hits that would have killed him or the others, but then they reset, a wash of cool, measured power that hums almost... pleasantly against his skin. It's a very focused kind of power, the sort that is dolled out in carefully measured amounts. It doesn't suit the Vint. The Vint whines about the weather, bitches about his boots and taunts everyone and everything with a near suicidal daring. 

Solas weaves the Fade like a plaything, Viv wears ice and spirit like armor, but the Vint... the Vint is unrelenting and stubborn and _controlled_. He breathes deeply after battle, never really close to panting, and then goes off on a rant for no reason other than he can. He asks questions almost always without malice – even at him, Bull marvels sometimes, like he's finally willing to believe Bull's not really interested in carrying on a symbolic grudge – and his awkward fumbling about with words seems entirely at odds with the steady concentration when he fights. 

Bull has always thought one can only truly know someone two ways: fighting them, with or against them, or fucking them. 

And he's not really gotten anywhere with the first, anyway. 

He chooses not to think too much about why he'd want to truly get to know the Vint, though. 

Bull's smart like that. 

  


* * *

  


Relocating the entirety of the mage rebellion to Skyhold is a bit more complicated than one would expect. Even weeks after the mess in Haven is but a haunting memory, there are still loose ends to tie up in the Hinterlands. Adaar is ostensibly there to visit the last stragglers and get them definitely out of King Alistir's hair, but she's also looking for Grey Warden caches that Blackwall said were rumored to be stashed about. She takes Blackwall, Solas, Varric and Cassandra with her, following the lead. Bull is bored but willing to stay around in camp, in case something comes up, with Viv, Cole and the Vint as back up if necessary. Sera vanished, somewhere along the ride to the Crossroads, but she's prone to do that from time to time and since Adaar never says anything about it, no one else does either. Viv is writing a letter, having taken command of the requisitions table, not that the camp's quartermaster is really in a hurry to complain. Cole is hanging near the Vint, while the Vint himself is staring at the road up to Redcliff with a profoundly annoyed expression on his face. 

“Roaring, howling, snarling. Red on red, glinting under the skin, fear so pure it burrowed deep and refused to show. I built this, the foundations if not the bricks themselves, this is my legacy,” Cole says, breaking the silence as he stares right through the Vint with a puzzled frown on his face. “But Dorian, you aren't-” 

“If you say I'm not responsible,” the Vint hisses, eyes narrowed, “Maker help me, Cole, I will do something violent.” 

Bull tenses a little, fully bracing for it, but Cole shakes his head slowly. 

“I feel it too,” the... boy says, sad and dejected in a way that always nearly makes Bull forget he is most emphatically not a boy. “The whispers. You want to go look. It itches at the nape of your neck, the pull.” 

“You've got something to share with the class, Dorian?” Bull asks, when the silence stretches once more, but the set of the Vint's jaw hasn't lessened at all. 

He startles at the low rumble of Bull's voice, and the offended glare he gets for his efforts amuses Bull quite a bit. Still, Bull is legitimately surprised when the Vint sighs and runs a hand through his hair. 

“There was something I had meant to look into, in Redcliff,” he says, voice low, “didn't really get a chance to, last time.” What with the trip through time and the whole rightful mess with Alexius, and then just... the whirlwind of activity before Haven, and then after _that_ , so much more to do and see and fight, and not enough time to take it all in, at once. Bull fills in the gaps for him. “I'm not entirely sure I want to tell the Inquisitor about it, though. It won't be pretty, whatever it is I'll find.” 

“And she'll throw herself head first into it, whatever it is, huh,” Bull replies, light teasing on his voice, but something hardens in the Vint's eyes, determined and stubborn. Bull thinks it might be loyalty, and he's not quite sure what to make of it. “We could go look.” 

“We?” The Vint asks, one eyebrow arched teasingly, which Bull has managed to decipher as his personal version of a suspicious squint. He's not sure he likes the overt friendliness of it, when the knot of tension on his back lets Bull know the Vint is nowhere near sincere in it. What he says, however, is: “Goodness, and take you away from your besotted cooing over your ax?” 

Bull doesn't even fight the impulse to grin magnanimously and leer unrepentantly at him. 

“You rather I cooed over your ass?” 

The Vint groans with pain almost real, holding his head in his hands. Bull grins, before looking over to Viv's back, carefully and purposely turned to them. 

“Oi, ma'am, we're going to Redcliff for a bit, you coming along?” 

“Take the _thing_ with you,” Viv says, not looking up from her letters. “And kindly do not start another civil war while you're at it.” 

That's a no, then, Bull figures, offering the Vint a small shrug. The Vint looks like he wants to say something, something snide and inflammatory, just because he can, but instead he sighs and rolls to his feet with distracting grace. Bull is used to it, so it's a bit less distracting than it could be, and he considers that a private victory. 

“Off we go, then,” he says, wry smile pulling at his lips, “let us not squander Madame de Fer's generosity.” 

The road to Redcliff is quiet, but not entirely uncomfortably so. Bull watches the Vint walk ahead at a steady pace, hand clasp tightly on the grip of his staff. Since the mage rebellion has ceased under Adaar's command, the road is surprisingly uneventful. Not even a single bear, much to Bull's disappointment, but at least no demons. Bull is willing to accept that as compromise. Redcliff itself is subdued and tense, not quite believing their troubles are over. War does that to people, makes them desperate for peace and then fucks up with their heads and makes them unable to enjoy it without worrying it won't last enough to be enjoyed in the first place. Bull has no idea where they're going, following Cole and the Vint along the pebbled streets at an almost placid pace. 

“There,” Cole says, standing in front of a shack casually tucked away in a corner of the docks. Something changes, in his voice, as it goes quiet and empty and a whole new level of creepy that makes Bull's teeth set on edge. “ _There_.” 

The Vint stares at the inconspicuous door with a vacant look on his face, and then his jaw sets again as he throws his shoulders back. He stalks up to the door with a determined look in his eyes, but the momentum is lost when the door refuses to budge even a little. The Vint swears under his breath, and Bull would laugh, really, he would, but the mood is weird and for once he's not entirely sure he wouldn't end up with a fireball aimed at his face. 

“I can get that open,” Cole says in a surprisingly solicitous tone, hands reaching for the lock. “It's easy.” 

“You pick locks,” the Vint says, eyebrows arched as he watches Cole fumble almost delicately. He sighs, shoulders not so much slumping as twitching with the impression of it. “ _Of course_ you pick locks, there is no such thing as a secret to you, is there, Cole?” 

“Is that bad?” Cole asks, head tilted slightly just so the wings of his hat will hide most of his face as he steps back, the door swinging open slowly, with a perfectly timed ominous creak. “Did you not want it open?” 

“No, no, it's alright, really,” the Vint says, reaching a hand to pat Cole's head as he steps into the shack. “It's all... oh.” 

The stench of dried, old blood hits Bull before he can ask. It's lacking the distinct tang of gaatlok smoke beneath it, but Bull still needs to take a deep breath and remind himself he's half a continent away from Seheron's fog-bound ruins. There is no floor, inside the shack, only dirt that's dark and muddled with blood. There's a half wall, right in front of the door, as if to shield the main room from anyone peaking through the keyhole, but the back wall beyond is full of wooden planks crudely nailed to it as shelves. And the shelves are full of skulls. The Vint walks up to it as in a trance, fingers outstretched as he reaches out to hold one in his hand. His eyes fall on a bloodied sword left carelessly on the floor below the shelves, and as he stares at it his lips pull taunt into a smile that Bull is very certain should have been a grimace. 

“The Venatori are creating these oculara, then,” he said, voice airy and carefully devoid of emotion, “to help them search for something.” He licks his lips, his thumb rubbing along the ridge of the skull's brow, like a caress. “Most likely those strange shards we've found.” 

“And you know that... how?” Bull asks, eyes narrowed. 

The skin on the back of his neck is knotted up in goosebumps, and the Vint is acting weird. 

“Doesn't matter,” he replies, looking at Bull guardedly. “You wouldn't understand.” 

“Try me,” Bull insists, subtly shifting his weight on his feet so suddenly he's standing between the Vint and the door. 

And the Vint's still holding onto that skull. 

“They're tranquil skulls,” Cole says, voice even and flat, crouched by the sword at Dorian's feet, his back to Bull so he can't see his expression at all. Bull's better off for it, really. “They couldn't fight back when it happened. They couldn't ask for help.” He stands up slowly, and turns to look at Dorian, as he continues: “I would have heard. I would have helped. I would have _stopped_ it.” 

Bull can't tell if it's Cole speaking for himself, or voicing the quiet, furious storm making the Vint's eyes all but glint with murderous rage. 

“Every one of those weird skulls out in the field's a tranquil skull?” Bull finds himself asking, eyes fleetingly moving up the racks at the Vint's back and their sinister contents. Bull shifts his weight again, to loom properly this time. “Why did you want to come here in the first place?” 

“That's wholly none of your business,” the Vint snaps back, straightening his back, but not letting go of the skull. Bull has the irrational feeling that's dangerous, somehow. “You shouldn't have come, anyway.” 

“Too bad,” Bull deadpans, “I did. So now it _is_ my business.” He finds himself sneering, just a little. “Share with the class, Dorian, how did you know this place was here? Why did you want to come?” 

_What did you want to hide from Adaar?_ He doesn't say, doesn't realize he means to say it, but it comes out implied very clearly. 

“Why would you know any of that?” 

The temperature drops ten degrees, but there's no ice to be seen. There's no lightshow, no sparks at all, but Bull feels the threat in the way shivers run angrily down his spine. It's in the air and in his lungs, and for a moment, his limbs lock in place, a single, terrifying pulse of _fear_. Then, before the ominous whisper can grow into a scream, it disappears entirely, and he finds himself swaying in place. 

“Because I’m a _necromancer_ , you daft cow,” the Vint hisses at him through tightly clenched teeth, quiet and all the more vicious because of it. “I can feel the echoes, the whispers. I wanted to see what it was, I could _feel_ it, but I also needed to keep Adaar alive and trip up Alexius' schemes. I made a _choice_ ,” the Vint snarls at him, and there is actual bite behind the words, nice and feral like a dragon’s own. He holds the skull in his hands delicately, not so much with care, Bull realizes, as with _compassion_. He’s observed many things about the man, cataloged them in his head inside that rattling bottle that holds all his thoughts about him, in the weeks since his arrival, but not _that_. It feels like a personal failure, to realize he missed it entirely. “He wasn’t afraid, when he died,” the Vi- _Dorian_ says, voice scrupulously toneless in a way that makes Bull feel like an unmitigated ass. “He couldn’t be afraid. He should have been.” 

And then, in a vicious hiss, as he fingers the ragged edges of cracked bone: “He didn’t deserve this.” 

“I’m sorry,” Bull finds himself replying, and meaning every word. 

“ _You_ didn’t do this,” Dorian replies, deceptively dismissive, if one were to ignore the fact he’s still holding the skull with a tender hand. “The Venatori did.” 

“Still,” Bull tries again, mind racing as he tries to put two and two together and understand what exactly is about to happen. “I-” 

“You should step outside,” Dorian says, lips pursed tightly, “you as well, Cole.” His eyes narrow again, glinting with that same tightly coiled rage, but his hands remain steady all the same. 

Cole slips past Bull without comment or looking back. Bull stays where he is, staring, and then the Vint offers a sarcastic, perfect smile that makes something pointy and uncomfortable sit in Bull's gut. Like a really sharp stone stuck in the folds of his boots, only metaphorical and weird. 

“Please,” Dorian says. 

The shack explodes into a pillar of flames the moment Bull turns his back on it. There's shouting, from the docks, and from further into the village. Bull swears loudly and filthily in Qunlat. 

Dorian strolls out of the smoldering wreck, not a single hair out of place. 

“You will not tell Adaar about this,” Dorian says, in his Vintiest tone. 

It is not a question. 

“Won't I, now?” Bull asks, walking at his side and decidedly not wondering where Cole has wandered off to. 

“No,” Dorian offers another of those razor sharp smiles of his that don't reach anywhere near his eyes. “You're not responsible for this.” 

_Neither are you_ , Bull doesn't say, because it's not his place. 

“Lemme buy you a drink,” he sighs instead and the grip on Dorian's staff loosens just a bit. 

  


* * *

  


They stay in Skyhold exactly a week, which is about as long as it takes Cassandra to be able to look at Varric in the face without trying to kick his teeth in, after Hawke leaves. 

Then they're off again, detouring in the Hinterlands because of course there's something that only the Inquisitor can look into, there, but then heading north again. Bull wonders if they'll eventually make it to the Storm Coast again. They killed a giant there, last time they were there – and Adaar recruited another fanatic cult, but that's just what Adaar does – but the dragon left unscathed. Their destination is not quite that far, however. 

Crestwood is a cesspool of mud and demons and the undead, like the Fallow Mire only ten times worse, because there's still people who call the place home. Bull takes one look at the lake and its eerie, glowing green light and he sobers right up, all thoughts of dragons and potential glory scattering away almost at once. The Grey Wardens they meet lend credence to the lead they're following, but of course it's not that easy. 

Bull knows that, logically, the priority should be to find the Champion and his contact, and get all the information they need. But Adaar keeps staring at the lake and the rift beneath it like it's a personal failure, and actually meeting the miserable, terrified inhabitants of the village doesn't help much. So of course they're dealing with the undead first. Of course they're gonna have to drain the lake and go crawling into dark, claustrophobic caves in search of demons and weird shit. 

But first, they have a keep to capture. 

Bull stares at the people sitting around the fire, steadfastly ignoring the pelting rain and the distant rumbling of shambling corpses. Ten people. All powerful and skilled in their own way, of course, but still. Not even a dozen. 

Adaar is staring at the map that Sera drew for her on the muddied ground. With a stick. The same stick Adaar is holding like a scepter as she points and plots, looking up every so often to gauge the reactions to her strategy. 

Ten people, against a keep full of fear-mad bandits with nothing to lose. 

Bull promises himself to get blind drunk, if they somehow survive the attempt. Never mind actually _succeeding_. 

  


* * *

  


Something shifted, in that shack in the Hinterlands. Bull doesn't know what it was, but it did, and he's consistently annoyed that he can't pin it down to add it into his reports. 

It took him the entire long, boring ride to Crestwood for Bull to admit Dorian's grown on him. 

He hasn't even called him _the Vint_ in his head for weeks now. 

Dorian is consistently the same: vain, arrogant, curious and sarcastic. But now Bull can see the nuance to it, the little nuggets of kindness or compassion carefully wrapped in acerbic wit, like wool woven with barbwire. The secrets – the oculara and Dorian's necromancy – sit comfortably between them, as they trek along the wilderness after whatever dire problem Adaar has gotten into her head to solve. But also when they sit in a tavern, on the road or in Skyhold itself, sharing a drink and their best snide remarks. 

It's surprisingly... nice, Bull thinks, as he remembers watching Dorian pick a fight with Krem over something or another they clearly never really cared about in the first place. Sometimes it seems like Dorian is comparing impressions of their homeland, doublechecking his own knowledge. Krem hates thinking about Tevinter, never mind talking about it. But he does, with Dorian. He's done it since before Dorian was _Dorian_ , when he was just the Vint. Bull is reminded yet again that Krem is a hell of a lot smarter than anyone, even himself, gives him credit for. 

“You should teach Dalish barriers,” Bull says, lying long as he is on a bench near one of the fires in the newly conquered keep's courtyard, as the Inquisition forces squirrel about to secure it under Cassandra's best glare. 

Dorian stares at the fire with a slight frown and is silent for a moment. Bull doesn't push him. Crestwood and the undead are messing with him and he's been particularly unhappy about the whole affair. Besides, he's learned Dorian doesn't really need to be pushed, so much as given enough space to breathe and sort shit on his own. Bull respects that, honest. 

“And why would I do that?” Dorian asks, eventually, looking down at Bull with a small, wry smile. “What business do I have teaching an archer anything at all?” 

Bull laughs and figures he'll be fine, despite it all. 

  


* * *

  


“It's wet, dank, cold and crawling with the undead,” Dorian mutters sullenly, splashing gracelessly up a slope to the entrance of the caverns beneath Old Crestwood. “ _Of course_ you brought me along.” Bull snickers and Dorian fixes him with a warning look. “Not a word, you. Especially not a pun, or I will set your horns on fire.” 

Bull grins cheekily at him and wiggles his eyebrow in a way that all but guarantees that Dorian can hear his thoughts quite clearly. 

“Wouldn't want you to feel neglected,” Adaar says a bit loudly, expression bland and patient as she interrupts another potential bickering fit. 

“I'm feeling _something_ , alright,” Dorian snorts, then slips and very nearly falls face first into the mud. He hisses viciously in Tevene and then glowers threateningly at Bull, when he can't quite swallow back the laugh. “I don't suppose there's still time to convince you I'm the tender kind of mage that is best kept in a corner of some warm library, with a glass of wine and some obscure mystery to research.” 

“No,” Adaar replies, eyes dancing in the dim light, wet hair almost silvery. “I've seen you _explode_ demons with lightning.” 

Weirdly, Dorian doesn't immediately brag. Bull notices, but then, so does everyone else. The pause is too long, and the timing of the expected quip is off. 

“Another time,” Dorian says, strangely solemn, “another me.” 

Adaar snorts, but lets the matter drop as they enter the caves. Then there are horrifying revelations about Old Crestwood, and everyone seems to forget about the small interlude. 

Bull doesn't, but only because it's his job. 

  


* * *

  


“Is it blood magic? The necromancy thing,” Bull clarifies, leaning against a tree as he watches Dorian feed his mount with his bare hands, without somehow losing a finger in the process. The dracolisk's red and blue scales glimmer in the ungodly early, first tentative glimmer of morning sun as it slurps noisily between each bloodied strip of meat. “That why you won't use it or tell anyone about it?” 

“ _What!_ ” Dorian splutters, and then swears under his breath as his mount makes a hissing, irritated noise. He cooes at it, leaning in to press his forehead against its face – eminently brave, in Bull's opinion, giving the exposed, vicious teeth in its maw – and whispers sweet nothings in Tevene until it offers back a sullen hiss. “Of course not,” Dorian adds, once the beast is pacified, giving Bull a recalcitrant, annoyed look. He goes back to tearing bits of raw nug for it to eat, and Bull can't say he's wholly upset about it, considering that's less nug in their breakfast stew. Inquisition field quartermasters are vicious and practical and Bull is _so sick of nug meat_. “Blood magic is the resort of a weak mind,” Dorian tells him, in a strangely practiced way that makes Bull think of his childhood, reciting relevant passages of the Qun under his Tamassran's sternly proud watch. “But the South is superstitious. They find it... unsavory, the whole business with death. Well, everyone except Nevarrans, that is.” 

“Unsavory,” Bull repeats, slightly distracted by Dorian's long, entirely unharmed fingers curled along a rough-looking tongue trying desperately to lick off the last bits of blood from them. 

“Considering these people seem to be _knee-deep_ in undead all the time, I can almost understand the reticence to anything dealing with corpses and the dead,” Dorian sighs, expression wry. Bull realizes, as he leans in to press a soft kiss between the dracolisk's eyes, that wry is pretty much Dorian's personal equivalent for neutral. “But still. It's perfectly safe, provided one knows exactly what they're doing.” 

“Famous last words,” Bull grunts gruffly, resisting the urge to shudder. 

Goddamn mages and their goddamn creepy magic shit. 

“Exactly like that, yes,” Dorian points out dryly, one eyebrow arched tauntingly. “I'd dare say necromancy is the exact opposite of blood magic,” he adds, thoughtful look on his face. “Perhaps that is why it's also not very fondly looked at, back home. It's all about measure and control and _precision_ . My art is not about throwing yourself blindly into the fire and hoping to somehow come out the other side whole.” 

“So what is it about then?” Bull can't help but ask, even if he knows jackshit about magic and most of it makes him various degrees of twitchy. “Your art?” 

Dorian offers a very sly smile. 

“Fear,” he says, and the effect of the smile is not lessened in the least by the beast now trying to nuzzle up the side of his face, “and retribution.” 

  


* * *

  


The Western Approach is on the other side of the continent, and there are a lot of things that need to be sorted out, before the Inquisitor can properly set off to follow Hawke and his Warden ally. Bull is quietly impressed with the thoughtfulness Adaar displays after they return to Skyhold from their little adventure in Crestwood. She spends most of her days in her war room, discussing matters with her advisors and preparing for the long journey, while also planning shorter, frequent trips to the Hinterlands to tie up loose ends. 

On one such journey, to root out a red lyrium smuggler ring that's been trying to settle in by abusing the echoes of the conflict between mages and templars, Bull realizes everyone has a place in their little caravan. 

Adaar rides at the front, of course, astride a massive red hart that makes the most horrendous noise, regardless of its mood. Cassandra and Varric often ride behind her, bickering loudly over anything that strikes their fancy. Blackwall and Sera follow them, at a distance, her chortling cackles highlighting his monotone, dry tones, but they so very rarely argue that Bull thinks they might actually be friends. Cole is nowhere to be found, as usual, but Bull has given up trying to make up his mind about that. 

And then there's him, and the mages. 

To be more accurate, Solas rides at a leisure pace, not particularly caring for company most of the time, but Viv and Dorian have taken to ride side by side, if only to make sure they don't have to raise their voices as they snark at each other from dawn til dusk. Since what they snark about tends to almost always cirlce back to magic, it's not unusual for Solas to be dragged into their debates halfway through. 

Bull always rides at the very back, and that means he's almost always surrounded by sneering mages throwing about words and theories he doesn't really grasp much about. At first, he rode at the back because Adaar was always looking spooked when she saw him, and he figured it would be a good way to pacify her. But somehow it became a habit, even now that the Inquisitor looks at him with something like camaraderie, _Ben-Hassrath_ or not. 

“But that's the thing!” Dorian says, as they make their way down the winding trail that will eventually become the road to Redcliff. “The Imperium's Circles aren't perfect, _obviously_ , but the fact they are not burdened by the responsibility of keeping a muzzle on every mage in Tevinter means that their resources are able to fuel actual study and research. No one walks into a Circle expecting to learn how to produce basic elementa. You don't get a nice, droning lecture on how to best curate the same three spells anyone's been taught in the past three centuries, because Maker forbid we deviate from how things have always been done.” 

“So what do your Circles teach?” Viv replies, sneering smile hanging off her lips. “The latest innovations on blood rituals and demon summoning?” 

“Vivienne, I might have to dock points for cliché rebuttals, you can do so much better than that,” Dorian says, laughing to cover up the spite in his voice. “The point is to think for yourself-” 

“ _About_ yourself,” Solas mutters under his breath, clearly intending to interrupt. 

Dorian ignores him with a roll of his eyes. 

“Granted, the lesson rarely sticks and more often than not ends in disaster when it doesn't, but there is an inherent value in being taught to question the way things are done, and looking for new ways of doing them.” 

“Provided, of course,” Solas drawled, before Viv could voice her thoughts on the matter, which, given the thunderous look on her face, couldn't be anything but contrary, “these new ways of doing things don't differ too much from the standard.” 

Dorian makes a noise of frustration in the back of his throat. 

“It's okay, Dorian,” Bull finds himself saying, as he grins at him. “ _I_ appreciate an _innovative_ spirit.” 

He doesn't mean to leer, honest. It just sort of happens. Solas snorts in the back of his throat. Viv looks pointedly straight ahead. 

Dorian _glowers_. 

“You're _not_ helping.” 

Bull swears up and down it's laughter that leaves him breathless, nothing more. 

  


* * *

  


“Is this punishment?” Bull asks, walking slowly at Dorian's right, seemingly enjoying a nice and pleasant morning stroll through the woods. The woods being the Hinterlands, there's absolutely nothing nice or pleasant in the entire blighted mess, but Dorian notices the way his eye slides every so casually over their surroundings. “Did we piss off Adaar? I don't remember pissing off Adaar.” 

At the very least, Dorian thinks, they can walk ten meters without running into a mage-templar fight. The lack of screaming, though, makes the already creepy woods even creepier. Dorian wonders what's with the South and all their woods and forests. 

“Oh, I don't think this is meant as punishment, exactly,” Dorian says, waving a hand dismissively. 

Bull looks unconvinced. 

“We're looking for a _ram_ ,” he deadpans. “And his name is _Lord Woolsey_.” 

“Herah Adaar is many, many things,” Dorian says in his best self-important tone, and Bull is vaguely irritated to realize he finds it funny, rather than annoying. He can't remember when that happened and now it's going to bother him for the rest of the day. “Infuriatingly sly should always be near the top of that list.” When Bull merely stares at him, Dorian stops abruptly, folding his arms over his chest. “You ran your mouth yesterday,” he says, more resigned than accusing. “Spectacularly so, and much more than usual at that.” 

Bull opens his mouth to ask what he's going on about, and then he remembers his distracted ramble into conquest and such, as well as Dorian's quiet, disturbed _no_ in reply. 

“So what,” Bull asks, trying to lighten up the mood and finding himself not quite able to, “this is the bit where you extract violent revenge somewhere out in the middle of nowhere, so they can't find the body? 'cause you don't need to. I'll stop if it's not your thing, no big.” 

“No!” Dorian looks as surprised as Bull is by his own annoyed splutter. He flushes. “I mean, yes. _Arg!_ ” He buries his face into his hands. “I mean, _no_ , I'm not here to extract violent revenge, you _twit_. The Inquisitor figured we could use time without an audience to... sort things out. Because apparently we have something to sort out! But we don't, so we're okay, so let's find the blighted ram and go back to camp.” 

Bull shifts his weight where he stands, tilting his head slightly as his shoulders relax enough to give him a decidedly less threatening air. 

“Or we could talk,” he says, almost consiliatory, even though in his head he's rearranging the pieces and rewriting a report on Adaar's generally agreeable and borderline pliable nature. He's good at judging people, he really is. But every time he thinks he's got the Inquisitor pinned down, she turns around and does something so ridiculously unpredictable, Bull is half convinced she's doing it on purpose. “You know, about things.” 

“ _Things_?” Dorian says, sounding positively offended, but Bull sees the defensiveness beneath it clear as day, and his derailed train of thought from the day prior comes crashing through. “What things would be those?” 

Dorian is... interesting, is the thing. Pretty nice to look at, of course, but that's not the thing that makes it almost physically impossible to not quip back at him. Dorian is sharp and witty and raw, like someone smashed the great tinted windows from Skyhold's hall, and then bundled up the shards together to pretend they were still whole. There's a weakness there, of course, and Bull wouldn't be Bull if he didn't notice it, but rather than simply note it down along the rest of the facts he has on Dorian, Bull finds himself curious. Drawn in. It took him until the outburst from the day before to realize what he needs, to get it out of his system. He doubts Dorian would be disagreeable to it, if only they could get to the point of actually _discussing_ it. 

Why do these people have so many hangups about sex, Bull will never understand. 

“The ones that need sorting out, I'd reckon,” Bull replies, amused at the flush that still stubbornly refuses to leave Dorian's face. 

“Fine,” Dorian snaps, but Bull's smirk falls a little when he turns around on his heel and stomps away without looking back. “ _I_ 'll find the fucking ram, and you can sort yourself out on your horns, for all I care.” 

Bull considers pushing, following him. He watches the line of tension pulling almost to snapping point across Dorian's back, the jerking quality of his movements as he stalks away with as much wounded dignity as he can muster. 

Bulls goes bear hunting instead. 

  


* * *

  


They're two days away from Skyhold, resting in one of the semi-permanent camps at the base of the mountain range, when one of Leliana's birds lands on Adaar's left horn. She trips a bit, mid-step – and Bull sympathizes, he does, those birds are deceptively heavy and horns are a lot more delicate than folk think they are, which on second thought is probably a good thing – and doesn't seem to get any happier after she finished reading the note. 

The fact she crumbles it into a tiny ball and sets it on fire as she throws it to the ground doesn't seem to contradict the slight twinge of dread in Bull's gut. 

“So,” Adaar says, throwing back her shoulders and addressing the group around the main fire, staring at her inquisitively. “Hypothetically speaking, if I say we need to turn around and head back to the Hinterlands, _again_ , how many of you would actively try to murder me for it?” There are groans and a couple glares, but no actual promises of evisceration. Adaar takes it as a good thing, because at this point, she is contractually obligated to look at the brightside, no matter what. “King Alistair wants a favor, to officially put what happened in Redcliff to rest.” 

“Take it you don't want to do it, though, do you?” Sera pipes in, from beneath the bear pelt she's taken to hide under during the treks to and from Skyhold. “Cause if you don't, you should just tell him to piss off, to wear his throne and sit on his crown for a change of pace.” 

Vivienne makes a noise of sheer, quiet outrage, that is drowned slightly by Blackwall's snorts, Varric's chuckles and Bull's snickering. Dorian rolls his eyes but his mouth and his eyes are smiling. Solas buries his face extra hard in the book his reading and pretends he can't see anyone. 

Cassandra offers her best disgruntled noise so far this month. 

“I _do_ want to do it, though,” Adaar admits, almost sheepish. “I've always wanted to do something like that, it's just that I'd appreciate to be told about it while we were still there. The timing is atrocious.” 

“Are you sure you want to start talking about _timing_ of all things?” Dorian says, casually flicking a wrist at the firepit to revive the flames. Adaar snorts at another of those little, quiet jokes she and Dorian share that no one else is allowed to really decipher. “What great evil are we to vanquish, o Herald of Andraste, besides the blighted road back to the Hinterlands?” 

“Wings spread wide, scales glimmer and the children scream, red, hot, burning, humans called them gods once, bowed to unchallenged dignity, and they never forgot.” 

There's a second or two or silence, as every eye turns to Cole, crouching by the fire, wiggling his fingers at the flames. He had definitely not been there, before he spoke. Then Sera swallows back a small shriek and throws her pelt over her head, not quite muffling the string of prophanity she bites out. A few startled laughs echo, here and there, as she breaks the moment, but Bull can't stop staring at Adaar's small, breathless smile. 

“Exactly,” she says, a hint of excitement in her voice, and Bull feels a shiver coiling up and down his spine. “King Alistair would be most grateful if the Inquisition were to... dispatch the high dragon that seems to have settled east of Redcliff.” She pauses. “It's perfectly fine if you don't want to come along, but I'd appreciate the company. Because, you know, _high dragon_.” 

For a very long moment, no one moves. 

“D'you reckon its farts are as deadly as its belching?” Sera asks, nose peeking from under the rough fur, and as the laughter breaks more freely this time – anxious, excited, terrified, mostly all at once – Bull realizes this is the best job he's ever had. 

  


* * *

  


“Surely you can flex better than that,” Dorian tells Bull, sitting atop a fence post with the same grace as if it were throne, one leg folded over the other and hands resting along the staff balanced on his lap, as he watches him swing about his ax in a mix of training and warm up. “You're positively sluggish.” 

“You talking to me again?” Bull asks instead, lowering his weapon and squinting a bit because the sun is coming up behind Dorian, and if he were a more poetic sort, he would comment on the nice things the light is doing to his face and that infuriating smirk of his. 

Since Bull is more on the pragmatic side of things, he has to wonder if Dorian chose that spot purely because it'd inspire that kind of poetic nonsense from someone else. 

“That would imply I stopped at some point,” Dorian replies, the lie sliding easy off his tongue in a way that makes Bull want to laugh. “You've been sulking, despite the impending dragon hunting.” 

“You're getting us confused,” Bull snorts, walking slowly to where Dorian is, “ _I_ don't sulk.” 

“And yet that's very much what you've been doing, of late,” Dorian retorts, unruffled. His lips twitch, making his mustache wiggle slightly, and Bull is assaulted by the strangest urge to lean in and kiss him. He ignores the thought entirely, in favor of watching Dorian sigh dramatically. “It was... childish of me, to walk out on you like that. You haven't even really done anything objectionable.” Before Bull can reply, however, Dorian frowns. “I deeply dislike being mocked that way.” 

“I wasn't mocking,” Bull replies, automatically, before he's done sorting out his thoughts and the best way to handle the situation. Since he can't take the words back, now, he improvises even when Dorian actually squints at him. “I mean, I like taking the piss out of you, 'cause you react to it and it's funny,” Bull offers, shrugging slightly. “But I wasn't mocking about _that_. You wanna scratch that itch, I'll be more than happy to help. Door's always open.” 

Dorian stares up at him with a strange, thoughtful expression on his face and the light is just right that Bull can actually see the little flecks of color in his eyes. 

“You do really mean that, don't you?” He says, but he sounds... muted. Withdrawn. Then he sighs and pushes himself off his perch with that ridiculous flair for gracefulness he has, and pats Bull's side casually as he walks away. “So long as you stop sulking, I suppose.” 

Bull lays awake in his tent that night, waiting for nothing in particular, and tells himself he can't be disappointed when Dorian very clearly didn't promise anything. 

  


* * *

  


Bull learns, though he can't exactly pinpoint when or how, that Dorian's dracolisk was a reward for his sucessful entry to the Circle of Carastes, when he was seven years old. But, much like Dorian himself, the beast is obstinate, temperamental and borderline feral, when annoyed, which is always. Dorian adores it to bits and pieces, and given the fact he still has all ten fingers intact, the feeling might be mutual. 

Also, its name is _Priscilla_. 

Bull finds it hilarious for no readily articulable reason and adds it to the ever bigger, rattling bottle of little Dorian factoids he keeps somewhere in his head. It sits neatly next to Dorian's insatiable curiosity about pretty much everything he realizes he doesn't know about – like the memorable, if slightly disastrous morning he somehow convinced Blackwall to teach him how to skin a rabbit and then spent _fourteen hours_ nonstop bitching about the resulting bloodstains on his robes – and his uncharacteristic ease at apologizing. Though, Bull reckons, given how easy it does come to him to own up to his own wrong doing – the shock on Cassandra's face was rather spectacular, after all – it's unfair to really call it uncharacteristic. It is very characteristic of _Dorian_ , just not of the stereotype that is usually associated to most of Dorian's mannerisms. 

They talk a lot more, now, than they used to. Still with the riddles and the innuendos and the snarking, but also with quiet nights keeping guard or sharing a drink after dinner. Dorian shares tidbits about himself with the same methodical, thoughtful measure he rations out his magic. It's not enough to paint a complete picture, and Bull finds himself more often than not wondering what's in the gaps purposely left in. He offers tidbits back, a bit of everything that isn't fire and brimstone and Seheron, and Dorian listens avidly, even when he invariably cracks up an impertinent remark. 

It's his job to watch the Inquisition, Bull tells himself, and Dorian is very much part of it. It's all very sensible, of course, as his reports back to his handlers show. 

Thus, inside his head, the bottle grows but rattles all the same. 

  


* * *

  


The dragon is a beauty. A terrible, uncontrollable beauty that needs to be put down for the greater good, but a beauty nonetheless. Bull ignores the way his eye traitorously slides over to Dorian's face and the stern set of his jaw, as Adaar offers last minute instructions before the battle starts in earnest. 

Bull loses himself into it, feeling the very core of his being vibrating in time with each roar. He laughs as he runs around, chasing the glimmering scales with the edge of his ax. Absently, he keeps tabs on everyone else, trying their best to stick to Adaar's latest deranged plan. 

Viv is providing the barriers, this time around, at least for him, Cassandra and Blackwall, pushing right into the thick of the action along with them, unlike any mage Bull has ever seen before. He doesn't mean to sound ungrateful, because barriers are about the best thing for a fighter like him, but they feel different than the ones Dorian casts, and he's vaguely annoyed to realize he misses them. 

The fight is long and unrelenting, though, and it demands his attention soon enough. The dragon takes hits that Bull used to down a giant, and shrugs them off with a huff and a swipe of her massive claws. It's quite possibly the greatest thing he's ever done in his life. It's all going well, up to the point it doesn't, and Bull finds himself separated from the tight little group his fellow warriors – fuck, if Viv can keep up, she more than deserves the title, mage or no – had meant to keep. Viv's barrier shatters when the dragon spins far too quickly for a behemoth its size, tail slamming square on Bull's side and he's sent flying across the open field the dragon's chosen for the fight. 

He hears a shriek and yelling, dazed by the hit and not quite sure where up and down fit in his map of the world. 

“ _Daft cow_ ,” Dorian's voice snarls from above, and Bull realizes he's slammed into one of the tall, cliff-like formations around the dragon's nest. 

Dorian was meant to stand atop one of those, take the high ground along with Varric and Sera stationed similarly along the field, to give them the best range and view. The dragon roars, and Bull stares as Dorian leaps. He should have broken his legs, and the rest of him, from that height, but instead he slams his staff on the ground and Bull's eye widens as the cool, familiar feel of Dorian's magic wraps viciously around them both, pushing into a dome rather than the usual second skin clinging to his back. He watches the dragon's fire engulf the spell, and he's entranced by the million different colors that flicker along the flames, spreading like a rainbow above their heads. 

“When you're done gaping,” Dorian says, voice ragged and worn, even though he's smiling – he's always smiling, Bull thinks, and it might be the hit or the fire or the sheer adrenaline churning angrily in his gut, but he feels that urge again, to reach out and discover what Dorian's mouth tastes like. “From your right, on three.” 

The dragon's fire ceases abruptly as it screeches again, and Dorian's barrier shatters almost with a sound. 

“Three!” Bull yells, not really sure why, and he's startled to realize the laughter ringing in his ears isn't his own, but Dorian's, as he conjures a small snowstorm to hit the beast square on the left side of its face. 

Bull dives in from the right, ax at the ready, and the dragon screeches when it hits bone with a deafening, crunching sound. 

Dorian isn't there anymore, by the time Bull gets a chance to look, but by then the dragon has retreated back, and he doesn't have words to express what he feels, when he realizes they're actually _winning_. 

  


* * *

  


Bull walks away from the carcass – it's dead, and they killed it, and he never thought he could even feel this way, exhausted and elated and damn near drunk on it entirely – and walks briskly to where Dorian's sitting down, feet on the shallow water, staff laying by his side and entire body almost boneless as he catches his breath. 

“You jumped off a cliff,” Bull says, voice flat because he still hasn’t gotten around deciding on an emotion to go with the facts. 

“Technically,” Dorian says, lifting a finger to point at said cliff, “it’s not strictly speaking a cliff. It’s a small cluster of columnar-joint volcanic rocks.” 

“In the shape of a cliff, yeah,” Bull insists, peering down at Dorian and the slightly singed edges of his robe. “That you jumped off from.” 

“Well, you were just about to be burnt to a cinder,” he replies, tilting his chin up arrogantly. “And since half the help at Skyhold would revolt, if you die… Evidently, it was my duty to prevent such an undignified end for the Inquisition.” 

There’s _something_ , there, Bull can tell as much, but not exactly what. Something almost bitter, but even he is not delusional enough to consider it might be jealousy. After all, his door has always been open, even before he’d actually told Dorian as much, but he’d never actually shown. Bull gave it three weeks before shrugging and figuring there was no harm done. 

Besides, they get along, now. They still take turns being jerks to each other, but there's no bite behind it, no real intent to hurt. It might just be the fact he just helped kill a dragon, but Bull is almost certain they could even qualify as friends. 

“You’re gonna buy me a drink,” Bull declares, too tired and too strung up, euphoria waiting to boil over once his mind finishes catching up with what just happened. 

“Am I, now,” Dorian muses, eyebrows arched. “And whyever would I do such a thing?” 

“Because we just killed a _dragon_ ,” Bull points out, giddy delight finally free to rush through his voice, “and you’re fucking _insane_.” 

  


* * *

  


“Do you reckon you could teach me?” Adaar asks Dorian as they leave the small platoon of Inquisition soldiers guarding the great carcass and start back on the road to Redcliff proper. “That thing you did, to save Bull?” 

“It's not very complicated,” Dorian replies, eyebrows arched. “Interweaved barriers and a layer of frost between them, just to keep the air beneath the barrier from boiling from the heat.” 

“Not _that_ ,” Adaar laughs, “though that _is_ actually really clever,” she admits after a moment. She clears her throat. “I mean the leap off the cliff. You should have broken every bone in your body from that height.” 

“Oh, that,” Dorian says, waving a hand dismissively like it's not a big deal to effectively sidestep one of the core laws of nature. “Sure. It's all about being graceful, when you're falling.” 

Adaar looks pleased like a child promised a particularly big piece of candy, and Dorian focuses on smiling indulgently at her, rather than notice the persistent weight of the Iron Bull's eye on him. 

He feels he might have to do something about it, and he wonders if he'll have it in himself to go through with it. 

  


* * *

  


The inn in Redcliff is full of food and ale and an endless parade of people all too willing to come pay respects to their, yet again, savior. Bull claims a corner for himself, much like he's done in Skyhold, and sets out to drink himself into an stupor to match the sheer vicious joy thumping wildly in his soul. 

He drinks and he jeers and he laughs, deadset in celebrating until something gives, but then Dorian is sitting at his table, toasting at him, and looking at him with the thoughtful, calculative look of a great predator studying prey. 

Bull isn't even halfway gone yet, when he follows Dorian up the stairs. 

“I'm drunk,” Bull announces, grinning down at Dorian as he presses him up against the door to his room. 

“Is that meant to be impressive?” Dorian asks, eyes wide and enormous, and lips reddish from the constant biting and worrying that's been done to them in the last couple days. “Because I've been drunk for the past six years, give or take a few sadly sober days.” 

“I don't fuck drunk,” Bull tells him, and Dorian shivers at the intensity of his gaze. 

“I don't fuck sober,” Dorian retorts, arching his back against the door and painting a picture nearly as fantastic as the feeling of his body grinding against Bull's. “So much for that offer, huh?” 

Dorian ducks beneath Bull's arms and stalks away almost without stumbling as he does. 

Bull watches him go and wonders why he's angry at the practiced, certain way in which Dorian delivers his quips, when it comes to sex. He sleeps alone, basking in the afterglow of the battle as he ignores the churning in his gut. 

  


* * *

  


Adaar sends them out to put flowers on some elf's wife's tomb. 

It's positively menial, in the aftermath of a fucking _dragon_ , more so when she's heading back to the lair to see what can be salvaged from the carcass and to actually explore the land they just liberated. 

Bull watches Dorian walking ahead, slouched and clutching his staff with white knuckles as he studiously refuses to say anything at all, and rewrites another report on Adaar and her preternatural ability to meddle. 

“The thing is,” Bull says, calculatedly casual as he resists the urge to snicker when Dorian nearly jumps out of his skin, “I _break_ people, if I'm drunk.” 

“So?” Dorian snaps back, in the Vintiest tone. Bull realizes he hasn't heard it in forever, nearly as long as Dorian hasn't been the Vint in his head. “I nearly committed suicide by dragon for your sake,” he snaps, clutching at his staff, and Bull thinks of the arcs of multicolored fire swirling overhead and the fact Dorian ducked out of the fight afterwards, exhausted. “Is it too farfetched to think I might be willing to try suicide by Qunari dick so shortly after?” 

Bull doesn't know why he gives in to the inpulse to reach out and grab Dorian's face between his hands, until he realizes he trusts Dorian not to blow him up to bits and pieces for it. The realization is a little bit terrifying, so he mutes it by pressing his forehead to his, bearing down at him and forcing him to not back down. Dorian's right hand reaches for his wrist, but it lays there, tense and warning, like a gauge to tell Bull how close to fleeing Dorian is. 

“Don't give my bed your little self-destructive spin,” Bull says. “You go into my bed sober and willing, and I'll give you just what you need. And if you need to hurt, I'll hurt you the right way, the kind that stays _there_ and washes clean after we're done. You don't get to use my bed to let yourself fester on whatever fucked up bit of bullshit is nested in that head of yours.” 

Bull is half expecting Dorian to tell him to fuck off. 

“Your sacrosanct bed isn't here though,” he says instead, eyes bright. 

Something – that awkward bit of weird and metaphorical, sharp _something_ stuck in his gut since the shack – twists forty degrees in Bull's gut, sitting heavy and uncomfortable in entirely new ways. 

“Like you'd let me fuck you _here_ ,” he bites out as he pulls away, before he can help himself, because Dorian is fastidious and prickly, and there's enough mud under the grass that their boots squelch with each step, like a damn ghost of the Fallow Mire. 

“For someone so intent on conquering,” Dorian mutters, reaching out to grab the harness' strap, and tug Bull back closer, “you require a surprising amount of coaxing to get into the mood. It's almost a challenge.” 

They don't actually fuck, and it's not because it starts raining as they're kissing and Bull's knees are slowly sinking into the muddled grass. It's not because Dorian's clutching his horns like a lifeline and arching his hips at all the right times, either. 

They don't actually fuck, because Bull's hand finds solid rock to help him hoist himself up to admire Dorian, rain-soaked and still flushed, his eyes half lidded and his lips parted just the right way. And he realizes as he's about to dive back in, that the ridges on the stone are shaped like words. 

“Well, shit,” he breathes, looking up and realizing what it is. 

Dorian looks at him, his rueful expression and follows his line of sight before breaking down into near hysterical, delighted laughs. 

“You're the death guy,” Bull says, as he sits up and carefully catches his breath, “is it still desecration if we didn't know the tomb was there when we started?” 

Dorian is still lying back, one arm thrown over his face as he tries to control his laughter. 

“No,” he chuckles, “but I do reckon we owe the poor woman a bigger bouquet, just in case.” 

  


* * *

  


They do, however, fuck that night, back in the inn. 

Three glorious times that make Bull recalibrate his thoughts on Dorian and leave Dorian lying sated and boneless like a well-fed cat. At least until he slips away once he thinks Bull's asleep, anyway. 

Bull lets him, if only because he needs privacy to rummage through his mental bottle of Dorian, wondering if he has enough pieces now to complete the puzzle. He doesn't, but he's not surprised when he makes a content little quip, in the morning, and Dorian snaps back a snide little promise that Bull thinks he means sincerely. But then he shrinks back, as if scalded. Their table is nearly empty, with just them sitting there, and the long expanse of wood feels almost judgmental for reasons Bull can't articulate. They sit on opposite sides, eating in silence that, despite Bull's best efforts isn't entirely comfortable. 

He doesn't think why he viscerally _needs_ it to be comfortable, why the sudden slump of Dorian's shoulders and the melancholic tint to his eyes make that awkward, sharp something in his gut twist another thirty degrees into the realm of physically painful. 

“Rilienus,” Cole says, suddenly standing behind Dorian, looking at him under the wide brim of his hat with a puzzled, worried frown. “Skin tan like fine whiskey, cheekbones shaded, lips curl when he smiles. He would have said yes.” 

Dorian startles, as expected, but doesn't actually lash out. He stares at the... boy, spirit, demon, _thing_ that Bull hasn't really made up his mind about just yet, like he's staring at a ghost from a far out past. And then his expression closes and the knots of tension Bull spent hours coaxing loose the night before, retie themselves up all at once. 

“I'll...” Dorian hesitates, for a moment, and Bull's surprised to notice the furtive, awkward side look in his direction, before he clears his throat resolutely. “I'll thank you not to do that again, please.” 

“You're hurting,” Cole says, quiet and dejected in a tone that usually makes Bull want to reach out and help him with whatever his crazed little mind has come up with, “I want to help.” 

“I know you do,” Dorian offers a thin smile, looking over at the doorway as Adaar and the others enter in single file and head straight for their table. He very pointedly does not look at Bull as he continues, “but sometimes wanting to do something, is no guarantee you'll be able to.” 

“Bears can go fuck themselves,” Sera announces angrily and loudly, slumping in the seat next to Dorian and effectively shutting down the conversation, “ _honestly_.” 

There's too much people and too much chatter, now, so Bull keeps his thoughts to himself. 

He does notice Adaar's calculative look on him, every now and then, but Bull can't hope to figure out what it means. 

  


* * *

  


There's a letter from Dorian's father waiting, when they finally get back to Skyhold. 

But it's not addressed to Dorian himself. 

The Inquisitor resists the urge to laugh, despite it all, because _of course_ they have to go back to the blighted Hinterlands to deal with it. 

  


* * *

  



	2. old hurts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dorian is a mess, mostly, but he's used to it so it's... okay? (No, not even a little.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gonna post this on Friday, but my internet was stupid. Then I was gonna post it yesterday, and I got sidetracked. Then I was gonna post it this morning, but then I spent 3 hours grinding for a Bagon in Pokemon Moon. Because I have no self-control.
> 
> Whoops?

  


* * *

  


_ii. old hurts_

  


* * *

  


The ride is long and tortuously quiet. 

Dorian hates the grimly respectful silence, but doesn't know how to best break it. He expected to travel alone with the Inquisitor, but the entire group gathered without having to be prompted. Dorian made an attempt to shoo them away, and was met with Vivienne's best vitriol for his efforts and looks of stubborn camaraderie that made something awkward and shapeless coil tightly in his chest. 

Now he rides slowly, body swaying along his mount's steps on reflex, flanked by Qunari and surrounded on all sides by the rest of their little world saving clade. 

It's awkward and stupid and he refuses entirely to think about it, because he knows himself, he knows he'll ruin it the moment he acknowledges it. 

So the silence remains, and in his head, Dorian dreads. 

  


* * *

  


The door closes behind Adaar with a soft click. 

Dorian takes a deep breath. 

“Are you part of the Venatori?” He asks, voice flat and emotionless. 

Halward stares. 

“It’s a very simple question, father,” Dorian goes on, eyes sharp and hands only barely shaking. “Answer it.” 

“Of course not,” Halward snarls, despite his best intentions to keep calm and civil. “Dorian, how could you even _say_ such a thing?” 

“Well, it’s not like I ever really knew you, is it?” Dorian bites back, smile snide. “I used to think I knew who you were and what you stood for. I used to think blood magic was beneath you. I even used to think _you loved me_. Clearly, we need to go back to the basics.” 

“I do love you,” Halward replies, quiet and sorrowful and something inside Dorian's traitorous mind twists painfully in acknowledgment of the words. “I have done many great things to wrong you,” he continues, but when he takes a step forward, Dorian instinctively steps back. Halward looks heartbroken, for a moment, before he smooths it out of his expression, and stays where he is. “I only came here, to ask for your forgiveness.” 

Dorian sees it, anyway. Feels it echoing inside him, weighing down his lungs with something heavy inside his chest. He swallows hard, and tilts his chin up arrogantly, thinking about Vivienne's best sneers for inspiration. 

“And what exactly am I to forgive you for?” He asks, staring at his father with narrowed eyes. “Do you even understand what you did? What it meant? Or is this to be another repraisal of every fight we've ever had before?” 

He expects his father to snap back a condescending remark. It's what he's always done. Something sharp and pointed that mitigates or outright justifies his actions and makes Dorian feel childish and irresponsible for daring to be offended in the first place. That's why he left without looking back, last time, without making a scene of any sort. He wasn't afraid of what his father could do to him, he was – and is, has always been – afraid of what his father would _say_. 

“What I attempted to do,” Halward says slowly, voice trembling despite his best efforts, “was wrong. I know that. I knew that when I was planning it, but at the time, knowingly doing something wrong seemed better than doing nothing at all. It was an unforgivable betrayal of your trust in me, of my own principles and everything I've ever tried to be.” He licked his lips. “I _did_ mean it, when I said I did it for your own good. But,” he adds, raising a hand when Dorian's face flushed with outrage, “I understand now, that I might have never really _known_ what was actually good for you.” 

“Might?” Dorian asks, contemptuously. “You are not even sure, are you?” He sneers. “Matter of fact, I'm not sure myself, really. You never deemed it necessary, to share what this... _good_ for me even was, only everything it entitled you to demand of me.” 

“You _care_ ,” Halward says, quiet and vehement and completely unexpected. So much so, Dorian is left staring at him and the intensity in his voice. “You've always cared far too much and injustice of any kind never fails to gall you like a personal offense. Do you truly think I never knew what was behind your outbursts at the Circles? You never hurt anyone, unless it was for the sake of defending someone else. And then you were vicious and unforgiving and didn't stop until you'd reduced all to ashes at your feet. I never objected to _why_ you did it, Dorian. I only disapproved of _how_ you carried it out, how irresponsible and thoughtless you could be, once you were convinced you were doing what was right. You were careless and allowed your actions to be warped and presented as examples of everything you most emphatically weren't, but that everyone believed you to be, with no feasible evidence to the contrary.” 

Halward laughs, short and bitter and so terrifyingly familiar, Dorian feels himself sway in place. 

“You _care_ , Dorian. Too much. And if you had learned to play the game, to pick your battles and play your strengths, you might have survived caring as much as you do, and gone on to change things to suit your fancy. But... this?” Halward looks saddened, rather than disappointed, and the difference is so monumental, Dorian leans back against a support beam, to help keep himself upright. “The scandals following you everywhere? The offhanded dismisals based on your... preferences alone? The rumors undoing anything you might set out to do, as soon as you started? You care too much, for it to do anything but kill you. How could I love you as much as I do, and not try to steer you away from that fate? How could I not try to keep you from destroying yourself over this... choice you've made?” 

If Halward expects Dorian to understand or sympathize with his feelings, he's sorely disappointed. 

“Do you even listen to the _shit_ that comes out of your mouth?” He snarls, sharp and vicious enough that he takes a grim sort of satisfaction in watching his father flinch back. “Oh no, the world is too harsh, my son is too fucking _weak_ to survive being himself, let me just fundamentally turn him into a _different person all together_ and pretend it's not because I'm too much of a fucking coward to take a stand and _support_ him.” Dorian glowers furiously, and only belatedly realizes that the Inquisitor took his staff with her, when she left the building. 

Probably to keep him from becoming a parricide in a fit of temper. Dorian is too angry to fully appreciate the gesture. 

“You approve of my motives but not the _execution_ of my response to them, you say?” He bares his teeth, stepping forward and all but laughing when his father steps back, this time. “And how, pray tell, is that I should have reacted, then? To merit Magister Pavus' approval? What are the correct steps, when your roommate is kidnapping children from soporati homes and using them in his experiments to master demon summoning? How does one politely denounce freeborn men and women being branded as slaves to cover up a blood ritual gone wrong? What's the fucking appropiate reaction to a senior enchanter taking undue liberties with the children in his care?” 

“ _Not_ murder,” Halward snarls back, hands shaking. 

“Murder is the only language universally understood,” Dorian snaps, hands clenched into tight fists at his sides. “Murder made them feel better. Avenged.” 

“And denied them any chance at _true_ justice,” Halward argues right on cue. “Murder made you a vigilante, a loose end to be tied up just as neatly.” Dorian's retort dies, however, victim of Halward's icy hiss: “Murder put a _price_ on your head.” 

Dorian stares, wide eyed. Halward allows himself to slump on an empty chair, burying his face in his hands. 

“Do you reckon it stopped, after you were done?” He asks, not unkind, and Dorian strains himself to hear the condescending sneer that's always been there, but finds only tired resignation in its place. “Do you think you made a _difference_ , somehow? You were cast out, each time, seen as an example of what happens if you do not keep your head down. And in the shadows, deals were made to keep you quiet for good.” 

“Perivantium,” Dorian says, tonelessly, as he remembers the frantic, near-ambush he endured after a spectacular fight against one of his so-called mentors there. “That's why you sent me to the Sons of Silver.” 

“It was meant to buy you time,” Halward admitted, and very slowly buried his face in his hands. “They were viciously Andrastean and almost southern in temperament. There was little there that could have set you off. You were meant to stay there, learn _something_ , if you could, but mostly be somewhere safe and out of reach, while I negotiated the contracts on your life.” 

Dorian remembers the halls of the Order of the Argent. He remembers the stern faces and the quiet, military-like discipline that governed their lives. If he strains himself, he remembers the tall walls and the specialized wards keeping the grounds all but physically removed from Minrathous proper. He never noticed them, not really. He saw them as yet another chain wrapped around his neck, trying desperately to break him into the right shape. 

There hadn't been an incident, in the Order of the Argent, Dorian remembers bitterly. Only a quiet realization, as he woke up one morning, that he was closer to breaking than he was even willing to admit. He wonders, if the walls would have seem so tall, the chains so tight, if he had been told their purpose at the time. If he had known he should have found comfort in the wards, rather than shame and bitterness for yet another grand mistake. 

“You could have told me,” Dorian says quietly, shoulders slumping a sliver, rather than own up the truth of what drove him into the whorehouse Alexius eventually found him. “You could have... _said_ something!” 

“And you would have believed me?” Halward asks, looking up at him with yet another disturbingly familiar expression on his face. Dorian recognizes it as his best sneer against Vivienne's taunts. “You wouldn't have run away, regardless, because you thought I was trying to trick you?” 

A funny thing happens to Dorian, then. He hears the Inquisitor in his head. He hears her voice, soothing and quiet and vicious when she's delivering judgment. He doesn't have her power or her many talents to get people to do as he says, but he closes his eyes and pretends, because the alternative, he realizes, is to break down and throw a tantrum. Well deserved, no doubt, but not something his father will understand. 

Dorian chooses, most emphatically, to not think why he _wants_ his father to understand; the wound is too raw. 

“ _Excellent work_ , Magister Pavus,” he says instead, voice flat, “you tricked me... because you didn't want me to think you were tricking me. Yes, I can see the _flawless_ logic in that.” 

“What would you had me do, then!” Halward snaps back, temper cracking, but Dorian finds, adrenaline rushing through his veins, that the accompanying fear is not there. 

He sees his father, shoulders knotted and eyes glassy, and he doesn't seem at all like the terrifying ghost of his childhood. Dorian spent the entirety of the ride to Redcliff reminding himself sternly that he's a grown up man and he owes no one any explanation about his actions. But it's not until he sees his father before him, breaking under the strain, that he begins to believe it in earnest. 

Oddly, he feels sad about it. He always expected to feel triumphant, in his million little fantasies, where he humbled his father and forced him to beg forgiveness. Dorian knows he's not a good man. He's petty and vicious on his best days. He expected to be able to really rub it in his father's face, what he's done and all the success he's amassed in the process. 

He feels empty, instead. 

“I would have you trust me,” he says, and only then realizes there are tears in his eyes. “I would have you realize my loyalty was always foremost to you. That your opinion and good graces were the sun I orbited every day. But you sent me away, like a shame that needed to be hidden.” Dorian smiles bitterly. “I stopped trying altogether. I had given it my honest best, and to you it was as good as nothing. So very well, if I was to be the family's shame, I would give you _something_ to be ashamed of.” 

“Dorian...” 

“Do you know why I took Alexius' offer? And it _was_ an offer, not a command.” Dorian looks down at his father and gives up pretenses, wrapping his arms up around himself. “I was determined to crash and burn, when he found me. I was working on drinking myself into a big enough stupor that I could go out doing something outrageous enough to make the Pavus name taboo in all the Imperium. But he made an offer, and I took it.” He smiles thinly. “You claimed to know me, in your letter to Mother Giselle – nicely done, by the way, writing to the one person in the entirety of Skyhold who would speak up against me to the Inquisitor's face, you certainly know how to pick your allies, father – you said, _I know my son_.” Dorian enunciates the words and just barely manages not to spit them out one by one. He thinks of Sera and he very nearly laughs, deeply hysterical and worn out. Instead, he offers his best sarcastic smile. “So prove it! Tell me why you think I took Alexius' offer.” 

Halward's stunned silence is as damning as a lie would have been, but Dorian isn't sure which one he prefers. Neither, possibly. 

“You can't, can you?” He pushes himself off the support beam that has been steadily keeping him upright thus far. “I can't forgive you, Magister Pavus,” he says, voice soft and not as mocking as he originally intended. “Because you don't want _my_ forgiveness. You want the forgiveness of that boy who might have very well never existed in the first place. The sum total of your hopes and dreams, that you knew and understood like a proper father should. I'm not him. I might have never _been_ him. I have nothing for you, just like you have nothing for me.” 

He turns to leave, bones aching and hollow like a bird's. 

“Dorian, _please_ ,” Halward pleads, in a tone that breaks Dorian's heart in many different places, for entirely conflicting reasons. He's never heard his father beg before. He hadn't known he _could_. “What do you want from me? What must I do to prove to you-” 

“ _You_ figure it out,” Dorian bites out, refusing to turn around and look at him in the face, because he's not sure what he'd do. “You were right, you had a son who trusted you, and you betrayed that trust. But you also have a son who is not foolish enough to be burnt twice by the same candle. Figure out who your son is. Figure out what you did, that truly demands forgiveness. Figure out if you still want that forgiveness.” 

“I love you,” Halward says, quiet and defeated, and Dorian's hand clenches on the door handle until his knuckles are white. “I will... try my best to demonstrate it in a way you understand.” 

“I want to believe you,” Dorian whispers, leaning in to press his forehead against the door. “Truly, I do. I've never wanted anything more in my life. But I don't. I can't. You made sure I never believed anything you say, without means to prove it.” Dorian offers a tiny, wry little laugh. “ _You_ broke it, _you_ fix it, essentially.” 

“I have misjudged you greatly, haven't I?” Halward replies, wry as Dorian himself. “You're not meek enough to be broken, despite the harshness of the world around you.” 

“The world has tried remarkably hard, admittedly,” Dorian mutters, finally turning around to find his father standing once more. “But I am a bitter, spiteful creature and I simply refuse to give it the satisfaction.” 

“We're proud, you and I,” Halward sighs, but it's not mocking, and Dorian feels his desire to flee renew itself with a vengeance. “I wish you hadn't learned that from me.” 

“I should go,” Dorian says, pretending very hard his hands aren't shaking. “I mustn't keep the entirety of the Inquisition waiting, over something this trivial. Who will feed orphans and the elderly, in between saving the world, if not us?” 

“Goodbye, Dorian,” Halward says, in the strangely magnanimous tone that makes Dorian repress a shiver. “I can't say it has been... good to see you, under the circumstances. But it has been enlightening.” He stops, hesitating. Dorian has never seen his father hesitate before. “May I write to you? Once and if I'm ever done with the tasks you've given me?” 

“I would like that very much,” Dorian replies, much to his own surprise, considering he had meant to tell his father where exactly he could shove his letters. “Good evening, Magister Pavus. Safe travels,” he adds, before he can surprise himself by saying something even worse. 

He compromises with himself by running away, but not actually running. It feels like a tremendous victory, despite the hollowness sitting uncomfortably under his lungs. 

  


* * *

  


Dorian slams the door shut behind him and lets out a shuddering breath. 

Then he realizes the entirety of the Inquisition standing guardedly in a neat row across the street. 

“Camp?” Adaar asks, walking forward to offer back his staff. 

“Oh Maker, yes, please,” Dorian sighs, not quite sure if his legs are going to let him get there, but then there's Bull holding Priscilla's lead like it might explode, before offering it to him, and something loosens beneath his sternum and he can breathe again. “Fuck.” 

“Aww,” Sera sighs, suddenly standing by his side and offering a cheeky grin. “I guess we're not punting some Tevinter jerk into submission, huh? That sucks. I have jars of bees and everything!” 

“I can charge him extra for the night, if you want, Sparkler,” Varric offers, smiling pleasantly in such a dangerous way that Dorian makes a mental note to revisit his opinion on the dwarf, once he's done falling to pieces where he stands. 

“Charge him?” Dorian asks stupidly, blinking down as Varric's smile only grows wider. 

“Well,” he says, offering a small shrug, “it's my inn now. I reckon I get to set the fare.” 

“What do you mean it's-” Dorian splutters eloquently. “When did... _I was gone an hour._ ” 

“I will murder you if you tell anyone I said this,” Varric replies, eyebrows arched teasingly. “But time is money, and money is absolutely my business. Besides, considering that every time we pass through, something dire and terrible requires our attention, the Inquisition could do with having a permanent base of operations in the Hinterlands.” 

Dorian laughs, and even to his own ears it sounds like screaming, but no one mentions it. 

Not even Vivienne. 

Bull's eye is heavy on his back, but Dorian pretends not to notice, because he's entirely out of energy to muster enough will to care. 

  


* * *

  


An elderly elf stops Adaar before they can reach the Crossroads' camp, begging for help. Dorian stares at him as he explains the situation and comes out the other end not even remotely aware of anything he said. Adaar notices, because she leaves him and Bull behind at the Crossroads' camp while she heads south to... do whatever it was the elf wanted her to do. 

Dorian isn't quite sure he's grateful or annoyed, so he merely follows after Bull without any higher thoughts in mind. 

He finds himself sitting by the fire, alone, some time later, not quite sure how he got there, and trying to puzzle out the cacophonous silence echoing inside his skull. He could deal with anger. He could even deal with sadness, though he'd loathe to admit it. But the empty, hollow nothingness that is slowly eating through his bones is not something he knows how to fight. 

“I could always suck your dick, if you want.” 

Dorian chokes on the bowl of gelatinous, lukewarm soup the surly quartermaster offered them... at some point between entering camp and Dorian sitting by the fire, but the details are fuzzy at best. He coughs slightly, trying to get his bearings again. 

Then the words register properly, and Dorian feels a flare of all-consuming anger as he realizes what they mean. When he does, he stands up tall and _glowers_. 

“I am _Dorian Pavus_ ,” he snarls at Bull, and even as he bares his teeth he realizes he might be overdoing it somehow, “scion and heir of Ancestral House Pavus, full-fledged _and_ notoriously brilliant enchanter of the Minrathous Circle, quite likely _the_ most talented necromancer the Imperium has seen in _at least_ two centuries, and you come to me to offer me _a pity fuck?_ ” 

The thought is unbearable for reasons he doesn't feel quite ready to scrutinize just yet. 

“Pity _blowjob_ , actually, ‘cause fucking in travel tents is a pain with the horns,” Bull replies, braving on a glare that could legitimately freeze water, by offering a cheeky, taunting smirk. “But it’ll be hardly pitiful, y’know? You just look like you could blow off some steam.” 

The soup bursts into flame. Bull is actually, sincerely impressed, what with the fire being _purple_. 

  


* * *

  


The Iron Bull gives head like it's his job. 

Dorian catches himself choking on a laugh at the pun, and Bull laughs with him even when the laugh turns into something ugly and wet and shameful. 

And yes, travel tents are absolutely not optimized for fucking, particularly with those horns, but they manage somehow, anyway. 

Dorian wakes up with long, throbbing clawmarks running along his calves and thighs, the bruise of thick fingers decorating his hips, and the Iron Bull earnestly snoring into his stomach, drooling a small lake over his navel. 

He manages to stay there for almost ten minutes, basking in the suffocating warmth that almost manages to overwhelm the gaping nothingness in his gut, before he physically cannot lie still anymore. He slides under the heavy bulk of the Qunari's frame and bites back a hiss as he slips out of the tent and his entire body _throbs_ with tiny pinprick aches and pains. 

He hates himself a little, because he wishes they were bigger and stronger, and Bull is an absolute asshole for watch-wording him out of using him to hurting himself four separate times, the absolute sappy bastard. Dorian grumps mentally as he sneaks away from camp, because if he wants to be self-destructive and petty, he should damn well be allowed to. 

It's only a matter of time before he starts feeling terrible for trying to use Bull as a means to those ends, of course, but before the sobering moral hangover crashes over him, he will take any flare of pettiness he can. It's leagues better than the crumbling bits of quiet still clogging his mind and the rising threat of guilt and bone-deep sadness looming in the background. 

It takes him an hour to reach the lake. It should have been twenty minutes, but he wanted to avoid the Inquisition camp along the way. 

He bathes in the early morning sunlight, tracing his fingers along the bruises and the angry red lines along his skin, where Bull held him almost hard enough to break him, while he tried very thoroughly to keep him whole. 

Dorian cries quietly, sitting at the edge of the lake as he buries his face in his hands, and refuses to admit why. 

  


* * *

  


Adaar ends up recruiting another fanatic cult, before they leave. 

Dorian doesn't even crack a joke, at this point. 

He feels ungrateful for all the concern and well-wishes subtly and overly offered to him, because the first thing he does after leaving Priscilla in Master Dennet's hands is to squirrel away to his alcove in the library, fully intending to hide for the next twenty to thirty years, if possible. 

Of course, the world fails to accommodate him. Dorian is honestly surprised he still has it in himself to expect anything less. 

“ _What_ do you think you're doing?” Mother Giselle asks him, glowering down at him with that same disgusted tilt of lips that Dorian would be entirely too happy to never have aimed at him ever again. 

“I'm being clucked at by a hen,” he replies, closing the book as he stands up, because it makes her tense and he's so desperately in need of an outlet to his pettiness that he can't resist the urge to further antagonize the woman. “ _Evidently_.” 

“Don't play the fool with me, young man,” she replies, eyes narrowed as she tilts her chin up. 

Dorian figures it must be terribly infuriating to her, to find that her wide hat and her pristine red-and-white robes carry next to no authority in his presence, and he admits to taking a perverse amount of pleasure in reminding her of the fact. He arches both eyebrows as he folds his arms over his chest. 

“If I wanted to play the fool,” he sneers back, offering a mock-innocent smile, “I could be rather more convincing, I assure you.” 

Mother Giselle flushes in outrage, and Dorian resists the urge to laugh because he's still not entirely sure she's not going to slap him across the face. He can see her hand trembling, barely resisting the urge. 

“Your glib tongue does you no credit,” she says, throwing her head back arrogantly, and for a moment Dorian wonders what kind of hair is hidden behind her ridiculous hat. 

That looks practiced, after all. 

“Oh,” he replies, face shifting into an almost leer that makes her shoulders tense, “you'd be surprised at the credit my tongue gets me, _Your Reverence_.” 

Dorian wonders if he's going to actually get into a slap fight with a Revered Mother, of all things – that would be new, and he's so emotionally drained, even the novelty of that is wasted – when her face pales slightly and she shrinks back. 

_Ah_ , Dorian thinks, offering her a viciously kind smile as the Inquisitor all but glides to his side, all seven and something feet of her. Mother Giselle looks positively humiliated, and deep beneath the muck of emotional sewage that's clouding his mind, Dorian thinks that look really suits her. 

“Oh,” she says, voice trembling ever so slightly, “I...” 

“What's going on here?” The Inquisitor asks, eyebrows arched curiously and voice quiet and soothing, but Dorian has watched her verbally slaughter enough people he can hear the steel beneath it. 

When Mother Giselle doesn't answer immediately, Dorian finds himself smirking. 

“It seems the Revered Mother is concerned about my... undue influence over you,” he says, looking up at Adaar with a mock-worried look on his face. 

Mother Giselle doesn't notice, apparently, because she steps forward, expression resolute. 

“It _is_ just concern,” she says, trying to invoke authority that just flat out doesn't exist. Not when facing a Tevinter mage _and_ a Vashoth mage who is also apparently the Maker's latest champion. Honestly, Dorian thinks it's hilarious that she even tries. “Your Worship, you must know how this looks!” 

Dorian watches Adaar's face and nearly ruins the game by laughing when she offers a perfectly confused expression. No one her size should be able to command such an innocent, naive look on demand, Dorian is fairly sure. It might be another of the Maker's gifts for her. 

“You might need to spell it out, my dear,” Dorian says, with his own faux innocent look to match. 

Mother Giselle's face flushes but she sets her jaw and turns to address the Inquisitor, subtly trying to push Dorian out of the conversation entirely, by body language alone. He's almost impressed by how badly she's misjudged the situation, and he's certainly not going to skip on watching Adaar setting her straight. 

“This man is of Tevinter,” she says, contempt naked in her tone, like it is some kind of deadly sin that merits only one possible penalty. “His presence at your side... well, the rumors alone-” 

“Rumors?” Adaar asks, eyes widening. “Oh, you must tell me these rumors, Mother Giselle. I absolutely _must_ know them.” Dorian bites his lips to swallow back an unbecoming guffaw at the expression on the Revered Mother's face. Adaar goes on, seemingly unaware of the reaction. “After all, rumors tell you so much about the person who spreads them, much more than about whatever they're going on about. Or so Josephine tells me, at least.” Adaar steps forward, reaching out to grab Mother Giselle's hands in her own, and the gesture would be perfectly innocuous, except for the bit where her hands are larger and stronger, and Dorian is certain the old hen's life should rightly be flashing behind her eyes. “The only thing you can trust about rumors is that whoever spreads them does so with a purpose, after all. Now, more than ever, in the wake of Haven's destruction, the Inquisition needs to stand united. Whoever tries to drive a wedge between us can only be working to further Corypheus' cause.” 

Mother Giselle's face turns the most beautiful shade of green Dorian has ever seen in his life. He makes a mental note to buy himself robes in that color on their next trip to Val Royeaux, if only to commemorate the occasion. Adaar is clearly not done. She looks down at Mother Giselle with an intense, deeply pious look, and Dorian is forced to look away lest he breaks down cackling. 

“I understand if you feel uncomfortable repeating such terrible things to me,” Adaar says, magnanimous to the extreme. “But it is of the utmost importance that we deal with these... these saboteurs! Please, go see Sister Leliana, Mother Giselle, I'm sure she's be more than happy to dig out the truth and root out these nefarious forces among us.” 

“I... will, Your Worship,” Mother Giselle stutters after a moment, before offering a deep bow and decidedly walking in the opposite direction of the stairs up Leliana's rookery. 

“You're a menace,” Dorian sighs happily, as Adaar's face breaks into a mischievous grin. “Utterly unrepentant, as well, I see.” 

“Well,” she replies, once more looking coy in a way no one nearly eight feet tall should be able to, “I do have excellent mentors in these matters.” 

Dorian laughs, startled by the sound of his own voice, and feels a little of that murky, sluggish fog lift ever so slightly from his mood. 

Sadly, they do not get gloriously drunk, as planned, because Cullen intercepts them on their way to the tavern, and Dorian is gracious enough to wave her off as she's dragged along to deal with... whatever big emergency the Commander needs her for. 

Dorian's no stranger to drinking alone, anyway. 

  


* * *

  


Dorian finds a green, wooden duck sitting on his bed. 

He notices the lack of wheels immediately, but finds it hardly matters in the face of... 

That _thing_. The twisty, clingy thing, festering in his soul that makes him realize Skyhold feels like the old manor in Qarinus used to feel like, before it became his prison. 

He cleans the duck and leaves it on his dresser, staunchly refusing to explain why. 

Even to himself. 

  


* * *

  


“So!” Bull says, head tilted slightly to the side as he watches Dorian go sit primly on the large, wooden chest Josephine got him after the one and only time she visited his room – not like _that_ , unfortunately, despite the not entirely innocent looks she's thrown his way over the weeks he's known her – because apparently it's bad form to leave one's... stuff scattered all over the place. “What's on your mind?” 

Dorian fits strangely well in his room, Bull thinks, though he supposes the thought is halfway mean: Dorian is a friend, and friends shouldn't be thought of purely on a decorative sense, even if they're ludicrously pretty to look at. 

“I wanted to apologize,” Dorian says, hands neatly folded in his lap as he offers a small, awkward shrug. “About... last time. I realize now I was throwing a belated tantrum and taking it out on you. It was unworthy of me, and you certainly did not deserve it. I know you... care,” he adds, deciding at the last moment that worry might be too much for Bull to take seriously, “about what goes on in your bed. I used you to hurt myself, and that's unfair. I'm sorry you had to watch-word out of things. Four times, no less!” He laughs a bitter little laugh that grates the inside of Bull's skull something fierce. “It will not happen again.” 

Bull considers his next words carefully, leaning against the wall as he studies Dorian's posture and the slight trembling in his hands. Dorian is vicious and unrelenting, to others but also to himself. He's too twisted, in that weird, politic-y way that Vivenne is, where nothing is what it seems unless he's made agree that it is. He needs clearcut, unambiguous statements or his brain goes off a tangent and arrives at the weirdest fucking places. 

Coincidentally, since Bull hasn't figured out exactly _how_ he gets to those places, he's kept the entire thing out of his reports. It's progress, of course, from when he first met the man, but it's still hardly good enough to merit mention. 

“Do you mean the sex or the self-destructive, hurt-for-the-sake-of-hurting thing?” He asks, sincere enough to keep his voice even and serious. 

Dorian stares at him, but Bull knows his chosen tone was right, as he's subjected to another of those not-squints Dorian likes so much. 

“I... assumed you consider them both one and the same, and that you'd rather not indulge me again,” he says, bemused expression on his face that nearly makes Bull laugh. “I truly despise pity fucks. Especially when I'm on the receiving end of them.” 

Bull considers letting Dorian walk out, as he's clearly going to do in a few seconds. He considers letting the mage stalk away and let things end, right there and then. Dorian is proud and vicious and they're friends, after all. Bull is sure he'll get over it, in a few days or so, and it won't impact their actual performance in the field. 

But. 

And that's the weird thing, in Bull's experience. He's never faced a _but_ before. He's not human. Or elf or dwarf or whatever the fuck else. He's Qunari. Sex and attachments are not something that coexist under the Qun. The Qun dictates a place for everything, and for everything its place. He knows damn well he enjoys sex entirely too much, and his fondness for how people outside the Qun handle it once they get over themselves and actually get on with it is probably to blame for it. But he's still Qunari. He doesn't get attached to people he has sex with. Hell, he's never really... cared if he stopped having sex with someone before. The very structured way he handles sex is partly like he told Dorian, because he's keenly aware he can and will break people if he's not careful – and he's not... savage, after all, he knows himself to be rational and thoughtful and capable of not acting like the lawless beasts that prowled Seheron – but also because it puts the onus of choice on his partners. He gives them clear, explicit ways to back out of things, and the fact they don't means they're choosing to go along with it. It means he's facilitating, rather than... than asking. 

He always offers, but in the end, they always choose. 

And he never talks them into staying. 

“Don't assume,” Bull finds himself saying, walking up close into Dorian's personal space and that something in his gut twists yet again, because Dorian doesn't wilt when he looms at him. “Ask.” 

Dorian stares at him, eyes wide and the inside of his lower lip caught between his teeth. He should by all means look coy, but Bull knows better. Bull likes him because he's sharp and thorough, giving back as good as he gets, no matter what. Still, he looks like he might run. Bull doesn't know why he dearly hopes he doesn't, only that he very well shouldn't be wishing for anything at all. 

“Do you consider them the same thing?” Dorian asks, after a moment, licking his lips as he waits for his answer, a puzzled frown tugging at his face. 

“Not really,” Bull shrugs expansively. “Sex's... a tool. To make you feel good. To sort out the bullshit in your head. To celebrate. It's all about what you use it for.” 

“Swords are notoriously hard to use, to hammer a nail,” Dorian replies, lips twitching, and Bull resists the urge to lean in and kiss him for being bratty, if only because that would be terribly bad form. 

“Just because sex is a good tool to fix stuff, it doesn't mean you can fix _everything_ with sex,” Bull says instead, one eyebrow arched. “Mind, not for lack of trying, sometimes.” He hesitates a moment, before sighing. “I... shouldn't judge, though. I thought you got it, last time, that I was joking about the pity fuck. I don't... do pity fucks. In general.” 

“And me, in particular?” Dorian asks, and his lips are twisted into one of those sneery, probing smiles of his, but Bull can hear the slight tension in his tone. 

“You-” Bull begins, then stops and squints. “Do you want an actual answer, a cheeky reply about how deliciously vain you are, or an actual demonstration?” 

“As charming as I find your feeble attempts at wit,” Dorian replies, half smile tugging at his mouth, “we've committed to this stupid talking things out thing, so I think we should continue the trend.” 

“Right,” Bull nods, then grins a wide, almost goofy grin that makes something under Dorian's ribs twitch in acknowledgement. “I fuck you 'cause you're pretty to look at and smart to talk to, mostly. I mean, you jump off cliffs and keep up with Viv. That's impressive and kinda really hot?” He chuckles a little, but his attempt at laughter dies when he realizes Dorian isn't following suit. “It's good fun in it for me, is what I mean. I thought you felt that way, too.” 

“I do... mostly,” Dorian shrugs, “you're... not unpleasant to look at, either,” he adds, with just a ghost of tentative humor, and the way Bull snorts and leers makes him smile back on reflex. “And I do enjoy our little talks, certainly. But I …” Dorian frowns, dropping his eyes to the floor. “I guess I'm trying to understand what part of _that_ was fun for you. You know. Last time.” 

Mostly none of it, Bull thinks, if he's being honest. Dorian in his bed had always been challenging and teasing and just a fucking delight to play with, before that. Dorian in the Crossroads' camp had been out for blood, mostly his own. Bull figured out pretty quickly that he needed to let out the hurt somehow, but he hadn't expected Dorian to aim at breaking his own ground rules for the sake of it. It hadn't been bad so much as nervewrecking, and when Bull tried to steer things in the opposite direction, Dorian had all but imploded under the smallest kindness. 

The fact Dorian avoided him or his bed entirely since then made Bull feel he'd fucked it up, but now he's not so sure. 

“You had a shitty day,” Bull says, shrugging. “Everyone gets one of those, every now and then.” 

“Still doesn't explain why would you want to deal with it,” Dorian replies, trying for flippant but tone falling flat halfway through. “It's... it's not your...” 

“Because that's what friends do, Dorian,” Bull says, eyebrow arched and expression patiently frustrated. “They help you sort out your shitty days. 'cause they like you enough to not enjoy watching you self-destruct over them.” 

Dorian barks a laugh, high and nervous, and shakes his head. 

“That's the sappiest thing I've ever heard,” he taunts, but his voice is brittle and not quite convinced. 

“Is it?” Bull asks, surprised by his own nervousness. 

He's even more surprised when he realizes how much he relaxes, when Dorian laughs again, less viciously this time. 

“Absolutely,” Dorian replies, and folds up a leg so he can rest his chin on his knee. “I am a terrible friend, as you'll soon learn and regret.” 

“Have you met _my_ friends?” Bull finds himself retorting, grin wide and taunting. “Krem? Dalish? _Skinner_?” Bull laughs. “Regretting being their friend is the first step of being their friend.” 

Dorian tilts his head slightly to the side and offers a small, but painfully sincere smile. Bull wonders why it's suddenly so hard to breathe. 

“I honestly can't tell if you're still trying to reassure me or if you've moved on to try and recruit me for your little company of well-controlled disasters.” 

“Bit of both?” Bull gives in to temptation and reaches a hand to craddle Dorian's face, half smile hanging of his mouth. “Trying to see which one you like better.” 

“What if I don't like either?” Dorian's grin is wider, teasing, and Bull is struck by both the certainty that he'll be alright in the end, and his own, genuine relief over it. 

Bull laughs, loud and amused and strangely happy. 

“Then we go and do something fun, for both of us.” 

Dorian sighs, theatrically but sincerely, and Bull's breath hitches when a smaller hand, full of long spidery fingers, wraps around his own as Dorian leans his face further into his hold. 

“I'd like that, actually. A lot.” 

  


* * *

  


The Inquisitor makes good on her promise to get drunk with him, when she returns from an apparently not very fun expedition with the Commander to review the troops settled in the valley below Skyhold. Dorian didn't expect her to, but he finds himself weirdly content when she throws an arm around his shoulders and steers him straight to Cabot's lair. 

“You look how I feel, Inquisitor,” Dorian says, grinning wryly as she slumps forward with a loud sigh. 

“Well that's just depressing, thank you,” she snorts, shaking her head. “We're marching on Orlais soon.” 

“And you don't sound the least bit excited about it,” Dorian replied, eyebrows arched, “should I be concerned?” 

“...you do know Orlais is in the middle of a civil war, right?” She frowns, and then squints at him. “Do you? Or was it just me that got told that three times an hour the past month or so?” 

“Just you, evidently,” Dorian snickers, and dodges when she throws a mock swing his way. 

Mages, in his experience, are not very good at physical confrontations. The Inquisititor, however, happens to be Qunari first, mage second. Her not trying could do more damage than the entirety of his schoolmates giving it their best shot. Dorian shakes his head, and reaches out to pat her shoulder nonetheless. 

“Why are you even worried?” He asks, offering a teasing smirk. “You'll waltz in and fix it before this is all over, of course. There might even be another rousing music number, too.” 

“Oh, Maker, please, no more singing,” she says, convincingly horrified, and Dorian laughs unrepentantly at it. He sobers up a little when he realizes she's staring at him, and then looks away when she smiles. “You're feeling better.” 

“Was I ever not?” He says, purposely obtuse, and then nearly spills his mug on himself when she shoves her shoulder at him with a snort. 

“I know you're going to ignore it entirely but,” she sighs, “you can talk to me, y'know? About... stuff, I guess.” 

“...stuff,” Dorian says, sounding vaguely constipated. 

“Stuff!” She offers a little smile, wiggling her fingers. 

“You spend entirely too much time with Sera,” he says, offering a sigh of his own, albeit a bit deeper than originally intended. He notes the way she flushes ever so slightly, and licks his lips, as he makes a truly unwise decision. “Buy me a drink, Lady Inquisitor, and let us discuss... _stuff_.” 

  


* * *

  


“But _I prefer the company of men_ ,” Herah – she's _Herah_ now, Dorian marvels, her name a shiny little stone he keeps in the metaphorical pockets of his soul, freely given without a second thought – says, voice what Dorian supposes is meant to be a taunting facsimile of his own. “Really, Dorian? I mean, _really_.” 

“Would you have rather I said, _I prefer to be fucked to satisfaction by giant, musclebound Qunari who also happen to be male_?” Dorian snorts, amused as she chokes on her drink. “I was trying to get a reaction, not kill the man on the spot.” 

“I believe you,” she replies, chuckling under her breath. “And yet.” 

Dorian stares at the depths of his mug. He swears it was not empty, when he last looked. Then again, he can’t quite remember when he last looked. 

“And yet,” he sighs, “the most damning word of all.” 

“I don’t know,” Herah snickers, the sound nasal and gleeful like she rarely allows herself to be heard, in public. “I bet I could find one worse.” 

“That was not a challenge,” Dorian deadpans, voice achingly dry. “I fear you really will drive Revered Mother Giselle into an early grave if you keep coming up with new, miraculous ways to be heretical.” 

“She’d have it coming, then,” Herah replies, voice hardened in a way that gives Dorian pause. “If that was what did her in.” 

“You’re actually angry about that, aren’t you,” Dorian says, and despite his choice of words, it is not a question. Not by a long shot. Right on cue, she watches his expression close off. “The rumors.” 

She considers, carefully, before sitting up properly, tilting her chin up defiantly. He spooks easily, Dorian. She’s tried very hard not to spook him, thus far, but she thinks this, much like his talk with his father, will do him good in the long run. She hopes so, anyway. 

“I am,” she says, refusing to flinch when his face twitches into a faint sneer. “I do not take kindly on slander about my friends.” It’s almost funny, really, the way his brave posturing falls flat at that. She would laugh, if it didn’t make her sad. “She will stop, or she _will_ be made stop.” 

“…oh,” Dorian says, and despite it all, it’s far more eloquent than one would believe. 

Herah thinks he looks slightly awed, staring up at her with the same thoughtful frown he does anything ancient and magical and unknown. 

“You’re all the same, aren’t you?” He says, as he recovers his composure, offering a taunt grin. “You Qunari,” he clarifies, and the teasing in his voice gains enough momentum that if Herah didn’t know any better, she’d have taken it for the genuine article. “You’re all big saps, aren’t you? It’s in your blood.” 

She does know better, though. So she refuses, for the first time since they met, to play their little game. 

“Not as a rule, no,” she says, in her best Inquisitorial tone, magnanimous authority all but dripping from it. “Only to those who deserve it.” 

“You’re so very drunk,” Dorian laughs, awkward and defensive. “So very, very drunk, I-” 

“Shoosh, you,” Herah snorts, reaching a hand to ruffle his hair. “You’re my friend. You’re allowed to be my friend. I reserve myself the right to be viciously affectionate and threaten murder for your sake.” 

“And I don’t suppose I get a choice on the matter!” Dorian splutters, but his protests sound ridiculous even to his own ears, like a frightened, bullied child trying to find the catch in an obvious trap. 

He hates that part of himself, deeply and profoundly, more so when all Herah does is smile kindly at him. 

Maker, but he hates how much he _adores_ the way she smiles at him. Like she’s genuinely, sincerely happy to see him, all of him, even the bits no one likes, not even himself. 

“Of course you have a choice,” she says, patient despite it all, and Dorian wants to ask her why she even likes him, in the same breath he squints suspiciously at her. It’s like he physically can’t stop. “I’m still gonna watch your back anyway, though.” 

The moment stretches. 

“I am so very, very drunk,” Dorian hisses, as he inches closer so that arm falls comfortingly over his shoulders, easy and light, and he laughs, at how utterly broken she must think he is. “I cannot be held responsible for my actions.“ 

“Oh no,” she deadpans, in that delightfully wicked tone of hers, the one that makes everyone dance to her tune without them even realizing it. “The horror.” 

“The horror,” Dorian echoes, and as he leans against her side, he refuses staunchly to admit how much he’d been needing a hug. 

He’s not five. He’s just drunk enough to think it’d be nice, to be five, and still remember what it feels like, to hug someone without thinking about their ulterior motives. 

  


* * *

  


In the end, Herah takes Sera, Varric, Cassandra and Vivienne with her, when she decides to venture to their first forward camp in the Emerald Graves. It's a tactically sound decision, but it doesn't mean much for Dorian's decidedly irrational concern that something will go wrong. He makes the best of what he has, however, scrutinizing the library for any potentially useful information and finally getting up to date with his correspondence. He even gets invited into some of the training exercises the former rebel mages have put together, and deeply enjoys himself as he starts a spirited discussion with Fiona over the finer points of offensive elemental use. 

Herah will be back, he knows this to be true. For one, because she's the Herald of Andraste, and despite it all, Dorian believes providence has her back, no matter what. For another, he promised to teach her how to diversify her barrier casting to include the rather majestic free-falls he's gotten slight recognition for. 

She promised to be back soon, just for that. 

Alone with his thoughts and the strange, alien feelings he's been nursing of late, Dorian frets, nonetheless. 

  


* * *

  


“You know what's your problem?” Blackwall asks him, a few days later, and Dorian isn't worried about the Inquisitior, thank you very much, he's just being a responsible owner and taking care of his mount. 

That taking care of his mount and being a responsible owner all require him to stick around the stables, with a clear view of the gates, is purely coincidental and should not be taken to mean anything at all. 

“I have only the one?” Dorian mutters back, then kicks himself mentally when he realizes the sickly dejavu behind the words. 

Well, he sincerely doubts Blackwall is about to propose they fuck with abandon on the nearest table, so there's that at least. 

“You care what people think of you,” Blackwall says, leaning back on his chair as he watches Dorian slowly rub a sticky green balm along Priscilla's horns. “You care about that more than you care what you think of yourself.” 

Dorian barks a meanspirted laugh and arches an eyebrow as he looks across the empty barn at Blackwall's sneer. 

“Says the man I nearly came to blows with, because I called him a _thug_.” 

Blackwall splutters gloriously and nearly falls off his chair. Dorian gives up pretenses and laughs, good and loud, about it. 

It's petty, yes, terribly so. 

But it keeps him entertained until he's done grooming his mount, and it's only until he's back in the library, after another day of most-assuredly-not-anxiously-waiting-for-the-Inquisitor-to-come-back, that he realizes Blackwall might not have meant it as an inflammatory remark. 

Dorian compromises with himself and proceeds to get blind drunk before acknowledging the fact the sourfaced Warden might have been trying, in his own awkward way, to help. 

Well, shit. 

  


* * *

  


“You wanna come along?” Bull says, in lieu of an actual greeting, coming to loom over Dorian's favorite seat in the library. “Me and the Chargers, we're heading out west.” 

“The Chargers and me,” Dorian corrects absently, offering a wry smirk when Bull barks an amused laugh in return. “And how far west? Because to be perfectly honest, if I never have to set foot in the blighted Hinterlands again, it might be _too soon_.” 

“Therinfal Redoubt,” Bull replies, shrugging slightly. “Cullen wanted to send a full force to take the fortress, since reports say there's been quiet there, lately, but Leliana thinks a smaller group might work best.” 

“And you want me along?” Dorian asks, head tilted to the side as he holds his book closed on his lap. “What will Dalish think?” 

“That I enjoy the view?” Bull retorts easily, teasingly, and Dorian marvels at the fact he's not in the least bit offended by the remark. 

“I should murder you where you stand, for that,” he says, voice casual and eyes dancing with amusement. 

“ _And_ you need something to do besides cheat Cullen at chess and drive Blackwall to drink,” Bull adds, laughing as Dorian's expression turns slightly sour. “Just looking out for you, big guy.” 

“I suppose you are,” Dorian sighs dramatically, standing up and sliding the book back to its proper place, because he's not a _savage_. “Oh, very well. But do note I reserve myself the right to bitch loudly and colorfully every second we spend in the blighted Hinterlands.” 

  


* * *

  


Dorian doesn't _actually_ bitch loudly and colorfully every second they spend crossing the Hinterlands. 

Skinner makes sure of that. 

But still, nonetheless, the sentiment is well understood. 

  


* * *

  


The fortress is in ruins. 

Leliana's agents provide the Chargers the distraction required to sneak in, and Dorian goes with them, mouth tightly shut and eyes wide open. There's something sinister and sickly vicious nestled in the very stones of the keep. Something evil once called it home, but not any more. 

Dorian hangs back and keeps an eye on everyone, hand clutching his staff until his knuckles are white. When they run into a pack of templars, so consumed by red lyrium they're barely human-shaped monstrosities, Dorian finds himself falling into place with the Chargers, casting barriers at a frenetic pace until Rocky brings the main hall down on their heads to put an end to it. 

“When we're back in Skyhold,” Dorian says, holding onto an exhausted Dalish to keep her upright, “I'm going to teach you barriers until you're the best fucking archer the world has ever seen.” 

“Yay,” Dalish hoots, and lets herself fall into Skinner's waiting arms with a high pitched giggle. 

“So!” Bull booms, laughter slightly strained as he comes to sit on a piece of rubble between Krem and Dorian. “Thoughts?” 

“Nothing I dare share in polite company,” Dorian bites back, and feels strangely validated when Krem cracks a loud snort and throws a mock-kick at him. He sobers up slightly, as he realizes everyone's eyes are on him. The Chargers, it seems, are far less inclined than the Inquisition to politely ignore the mage that just saved their lives. The novelty is vaguely terrifying. “There's a trail.” 

“That usually implies _something_ left it,” Stitches points out with a slight frown, sitting down on Grim as he rubs something pink and slimy all over his head. Grim endures with, well, grim silence and a strangely dejected dignity. “Do you know what it is?” 

“Something that left a distinctly shit-flavored aftertaste in the Fade all around this place,” Dorian replies, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “I'm sure Solas could provide a more poetic and detailed account of it, but honestly. This is quite literally shitting on my tongue. It's _vile_.” 

“If it left a trail,” Skinner points out, patting Dalish head as she finally passes out on her lap, “means it was still alive when it left.” 

The silence lingers, as they consider the implications. All eyes eventually turn to Bull, who sits on the rubble, bad leg stretched out and ax lying within grasp. Dorian understands this isn't his place, all of a sudden, and rather than stick his nose into their business, contents himself with watching their reactions and the subtleties of their interactions. It's very different than the Inquisition proper, but no less fascinating to someone like him, who's never really been part of a group before. Not in the true sense of belonging. 

“Traditionally, this is where we send word back and wait for confirmation before pushing through,” Bull rumbles after a moment, “but the Inquisitor is in Orlais. That complicates matters.” 

“Do Fade trails grow cold?” Krem asks, sincerely curious and not in the least bit mocking. 

Dorian wonders if it's too early to get drunk. 

“Yes, but not the way you might imagine so,” he replies, leaning on his staff with a sigh. “It becomes something else entirely. And it will lead you somewhere, but it will not be what you were originally looking for. Then again, since you most likely don't know what you were looking for in the first place, you might never know the difference.” 

“Well, that's promising,” Rocky snarks, and Dorian offers a weak little smile in return. 

“I say we go after it,” Krem says, sitting back with a shrug. “The Magister is clearly bothered about it.” 

Dorian wastes what little mana remains to him by conjuring a snowball into his hand and throwing it at Krem's face for the comment. Skinner snickers meanspiritedly in the back of her throat, while Stitches rolls his eyes with a flourish. Bull ignores them both. 

“I think hunting down this thing is the better option,” he says, absently rubbing a cramp off his left thigh. “Any objections?” 

The Chargers shake their heads. 

“You mean besides the fact Dalish is out for the count and I'm two minutes from following suit?” Dorian points out with a snort. “None from me,” he sighs, when the silence stretches and the stares start to weigh him down somewhat. 

“Good,” Bull nods, “I'd say let's make camp, but how about we settle down away from the creepy ruin full of red lyrium shit?” 

  


* * *

  


Dorian remembers Redcliff, as he finds himself sitting by the fire, warming his fingers. 

He remembers the red glow eating through the Iron Bull, in that future that thankfully will never come to pass now, mostly because Dorian and the Inquisitor made a solemn vow not to let it. The memory is disturbing, nonetheless. 

It's been weeks now, and many more horrific things have come to pass, since then. Haven, for one. But still, there's something about Redcliff that sits uncomfortable in his gut, taunting him with echoes and bad dreams. He thought he was getting better, all things considered, but it turned out not to be the case. 

“Skinner's keeping watch,” Bull says, behind him, and Dorian swallows back a hiss as he startles. “But I reckon you're not out here for that, huh?” 

“How's the leg?” Dorian asks, rather than answer the question, looking over his shoulder to the looming figure that for some reason he refuses to scrutinize closely is more comforting than anything else. 

“Leg's good,” Bull grunts, despite his words, as he slides into the makeshift bench next to Dorian. “Then again, you know everything mine is good.” 

“Your sense of humor is based solely on puns,” Dorian retorts with a little scoff, “so no, not _everything_.” When Bull merely grins, Dorian shakes his head and bows his head forward, running his fingers through his hair. “It's still shitting on my tongue.” 

“If I say you look scared, are you gonna throw a fireball at my head?” Bull asks cautiously, studying the tired slump of Dorian's shoulders. 

“Probably,” he snorts, shaking his head. “Wouldn't change the fact that it's true, though. I'm not... used to being scared. I'm very good at scaring people. Made a career of it, really. But this...” 

“What's it like?” Bull asks, as Dorian's words trail off and don't continue. “What do you feel?” 

“People died, here. Lots and lots of them,” Dorian says, shuddering. “I can hear the whispers, vague impressions of thoughts and feelings that get trapped in the wisps clustered about. Usually, that's a good thing for me, means there's... tools to be used, ready and waiting. But there's too many here. I'm surprised there wasn't a rift somewhere. Too much pressure from the other side. It's loud and unpleasant and vaguely overwhelming. When the wisps cluster like that, demons are never far away.” 

“Fuck demons,” Bull says eloquently, disgust clear in his voice. “Demons ruin everything.” 

Dorian finds himself laughing despite himself. 

“Quite, yes.” 

“You wanna sleep with me tonight?” Bull asks, after a long moment of nearly comfortable silence. When Dorian splutters and nearly slides off the bench in surprise, Bull merely offers a small shrug. “No one likes sleeping alone, when they're scared.” 

“I'm not five years old,” Dorian snaps back, scowling. “You don't need to tuck me in and promise the shadows won't eat me. I've met those shadows and they very much would like to have me. Scared or not, I refuse to give them the satisfaction.” 

“'s cool,” Bull says placatingly, offering a half smile. “Was asking more for myself. You do you, right?” 

Dorian watches him stand up slowly and walk back into his tent with narrowed eyes. He sees, for a moment, the flash of a memory superimposed on reality, and imagines the tiny clusters of red lyrium crystals slowly clawing their way through the Iron Bull's back. The thought fills him with a very angry kind of nausea. 

“Not a word,” he says, sharp and strangely annoyed, as he throws the tent's flap open, ten minutes later and catches Bull with his pants down. Literally. “Daft cow,” he adds, reaching out to help, anyway. 

“Surly Vint,” Bull mutters long after, burying the words into the crown of Dorian's head as he curls around him with ease. 

Since Dorian's snoring by then, Bull is spared the usual tirade. 

  


* * *

  


The next day, Dorian finds himself leading the Chargers through the wilderness, following the metaphorical stench to find its source. 

Instead, they find Cole. 

“Your hurt touched theirs,” the spirit explains, offering a child-like shrug to go with it. “It's a familiar hurt, a hurt I knew about but couldn't heal. You're tracking the source and the hurts touched, and then I knew.” 

“Just for the record,” Rocky says after a moment, “I'm not the only one who didn't get shitfuck from that, right?” 

“Right,” Skinner snorts, scowling distrustingly at Cole. 

Dorian remembers that she used to look at him like that, but not when she stopped. The realization sits awkward and misshappen in his gut, and he doesn't know what to do with it. 

“So what is the source of it?” Dorian finds himself asking, since everyone else seems too busy staring at Cole with various degrees of uncomfortable wariness to do so. “Do you know?” 

“Envy,” Cole replies, looking at Dorian carefully from beneath the wide brim of his hat. “Cold, used, discarded. Chained to serve willingly, but betrayed. Now it wanders off, planing a reckoning of its own. Things were promised and not delivered and now it's very, very angry.” 

“An angry envy demon,” Dorian summarizes, voice airy and soft. “Well, there's no reason to be worried at all then.” 

“And the reason for that is...?” Dalish asks, squinting as she leans on her... bow. 

“Envy demons don't want to just possess someone,” Dorian explains, a meanspirited smirk tugging at his lips as his eyes narrow slightly. “They want to actually _become_ whoever they're targeting. They learn from the people they observe, and in a way their minds are terribly human-like, the longer they've roamed free. So that makes them suseptible to most things you'd throw at a human, only more so, because they're not human and they don't know how to handle it.” 

“It's old and angry and vicious,” Cole insists, but something changes, as Dorian looks at him right in the eye. He makes an unhappy noise as his expression grows pinched, and adds: “it won't be easy.” 

“Well, if the Inquisition has taught us anything so far, Cole, is that nothing ever _is_ ,” Dorian laughs, and reaches a hand to pat his head. “But it will be very simple. Provided we can still track it down, at least.” 

Cole... and everyone else, Bull notices, looks solely unconvinced. But there's something dangerous and confident in Dorian's smirk that reminds him of the dragon. Despite it all evidence to the contrary, it makes Bull want to trust Dorian to know what he's doing. 

  


* * *

  


Dorian is at his absolute Vintiest during the hunt, actually barking orders and sneering disdainfully here and there. Bull has to put a hand on Skinner's head more than once, to keep her from acting on her exhausted patience. He's not immune to it either, some of the things he says or just... _how_ he says them, more accurately, set his teeth on edge. 

After the second day, a particularly sour expression sits on Krem's face and stubbornly refuses to go anywhere, and Bull actually worries Dorian is going to get shived at night. 

Only Cole seems unruffled, staring intently at Dorian but biting his lip and refusing to say anything. 

Bull considers saying something – a lot of somethings, not all of them polite – but the look in Dorian's eye and the strangely practiced sneer give him pause. He's watched Dorian for a long time, now, unpacking the bits and pieces of everything he is that are hidden behind each word and action. He knows, for example, that beneath the posturing and deadpan snarking, Dorian is genuinely brave, quite capable of keeping his cool under pressure with only a few jokes in poor taste to show for it. He's kind and considerate, beneath his pompous arrogance, never actually needlessly cruel to anyone who didn't slight him first. 

He also knows it's not something one notices immediately, because Dorian is excellent at presenting himself as what he's not and... 

And. 

_Ah_ . 

“What is an envy demon, exactly?” Bull asks, a suspicious, dangerous thought crawling inside his skull. 

“If I had to put it in words even someone like you could understand?” Dorian replies, snotty and superior, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes, and Bull promises himself to strangle him when everything's over, if they're still both alive. “A pathetic, miserable leech that desperately wants to be something it's not. They might be more powerful, the same way, let's say, you are physically stronger than me. But just like I am infinitely better than you in every conceibable way, well... even a lowly rage demon would be better than them.” Dorian's stare holds Bull's eye for a moment, just a split second hoping the meaning is clear. Bull doesn't understand him, not entirely, but just the certainty that there _is_ a meaning in there somewhere, puts part of his soul at ease. “At least a rage demon knows what it is, and doesn't fumble about trying to be something it's not.” Dorian offers a small, mocking laugh. “It's heading down to Ostagar instead of Denerim, after all. It _can't_ be very bright.” 

By the time camp is ready, on the third day, Bull is certain Dorian has a plan of sorts. It doesn't seem like the most reasonable or safe plan out there, but he's the one who claims to know what they're dealing with, and after careful consideration, Bull realizes he trusts him enough to follow along with it. 

He decides not to think too hard on that just yet, though. He can do it if they survive this mess, after all. 

  


* * *

  


The attack comes two days after that. 

A ragtag group of red lyrium monstrosities and a couple demons, for spice. The Chargers fight bravely, if perhaps a little more viciously than usual. Bull figures out why only in the heels of the realization that Dorian is nowhere to be found. Once the attackers are dealt with, the Chargers head out and find Dorian and... Dorian, standing against each other in a clearing. 

“He's too much, too soon,” Cole says, not quite helpfully, as he stands by the sidelines, watching everything with wide eyes. “He spread himself thin, easy pickings, not much depth, and then he opened up and let it through. It's drowning, but it might still be too much. They're both too much.” 

“There are no Harrowings, in the Imperium,” Dorian... one of them, says, thin, vicious smile tugging at his lips. “Do you know why?” 

“Because we're not _savages,_ ” Dorian replies, in another excellent rendition of the Vintiest tone, and something inside Bull's head twists as he smirks. “We don't see the need to brutalize ourselves for the sake of someone else's fear. We're-” 

“Wrong!” Dorian laughs, lowering his staff. “Twice over, even. There _are_ Harrowings in the Imperium, but only one kind of mage is required to go through one. Because only one kind of mage _needs_ it,” he explains as the air goes thick and sickly sweet, and Bull remembers the shack in the Hinterlands, only this time he's outside, watching in. “Necromancers.” 

Dorian throws himself forward, staff blade aiming at the smirking Dorian's face, but he never reaches him. The air hums with magic as he stumbles, shrieking with pure, unadultered fear. 

Dorian bares his teeth, reaching into the ground itself to pull at the echoes. They're close enough to Ostagar now that the stones and the trees and the air itself bleeds with the horrors of the Fifth Blight. The wisps curl all around, bearing hard on the Veil, and he pulls them closer as the memories of past misery and despair come crashing down on the impostor like a hammer. 

Cole screams, flailing back, and then vanishes altogether. 

Dorian feels bad about it, he does, but he doesn't stop. He can't afford to. There will be time for apologies later, when this is done. 

Dorian screams and screams until he _bursts_ , body giving in to pale, sickly skin and limbs too large and spindly for his frame. 

“Now!” Dorian snaps, twirling his staff and forming a cage woven out of sheer terror around the clearing. 

It won't be enough to keep the demon contained, not for long and not once it gets its bearings, but it might not take that long. 

“Horns up!” Bull roars at the Chargers, throwing himself forward, ax first. 

For a split second, Dorian wonders if they won't follow suit, but then Krem is screaming the warcry himself, and Dalish is raining fire and ice to pave the way for the rest. 

The demon is strong and powerful, and it shifts faces at random, trying to confuse them and break the flow of their attacks, to find an opening and strike back. Dorian hangs in the back, wielding fear like a precision instrument and delivering cleaving blows with it, whenever he sees the Chargers faltering. He doesn't think about the faces that parade around the clearing, the sharp gasps or the deep hisses from the others that accompany their arrival. He only focuses on the increasingly erratic shifts, the building desperation as their victory becomes inevitable. 

He slips, just barely, as confidence grows, but a slip is more than what a demon needs. 

“Son,” Halward whispers, reaching out to him, “ _my son_ , how could-” 

Halward screams as Bull sinks the bulk of his ax in his back, holding onto his shape to let Dorian see the blood spill out his mouth and his eyes go glassy and distant. 

Everything goes quiet, in Dorian's mind, before it explodes into a shriek of near uncontrollable rage and he's forced to let go of the fear lest it becomes something else. 

Bull barely has enough time to flail back as Dorian shoves all his remaining mana into one last torrent of lightning crashing down from the sky. The ground explodes on impact, flying debris obscuring most of the horrid sight as the demon bursts into bright specks of Fade green ash. 

“Fuck,” Bull says, with feeling, as he slowly sits up. 

Dorian says nothing at all, as he passes out on the spot. 

  


* * *

  


“I wish you wouldn't do that,” Cole says quietly, as Dorian comes back to awareness and finds himself lying inside a tent. Bull's tent, given the extra height. “Drag up old hurts, twisted, burning, dying, you weave them into weapons that cannot be fought. It hurts, but there's nothing left to heal.” 

Dorian sighs, folding an arm over his face. 

“I'm sorry, Cole, I did not think of the effect my particular brand of magic would have on you,” he says, then tilts his head just so to peek at the boy and his ever sad expression. “Did it hurt?” 

“It... was too much,” Cole admits, as he frowns. “Too much hurt, too much fear, too much, pushing too hard. I had to leave, even though I did not want to.” 

Dorian sits up slowly, letting out a long, drawn-out breath as he takes stock of the exhaustion gnawing at his bones. He overdid it, badly. It's the kind of reckless, impulsive thing a child would do, and he knows better. But still, the memory of his father's face twisted that way, the sheer raw hurt that bled into anger all at once. He knew he shouldn't, the moment he struck, but he still did it anyway. If he had been just a little weaker, if the timing had been just a little off, it would have given the demon the window it needed to flee, or worse. 

“I do what I do for a reason,” Dorian finds himself saying, offering a small shrug in the face of Cole's piercing stare. “It's not pleasant and I don't always enjoy it, no, but when it needs to be done, I will do it. Can you understand that, Cole?” 

“Not... really,” Cole sighs, shoulders slumping. “I understand you don't mean to hurt. Only... you use hurt to hurt those who hurt but not those hurting. Is it like that?” 

Dorian takes a moment, entirely too long, to untangle that, and decides his head hurts too much for it. 

“Something like that,” Dorian says wryly. “Is that... good enough?” 

“I suppose,” Cole replies, not sounding very sure himself, before he fixes a thoughtful stare on Dorian. “You're still hurting, though. But it's not because of the demon. It's old and scarred, clinging on because it has nowhere else to go.” His eyes narrow and Dorian decides he's entirely too sober and too tired to deal with whatever's coming next. Cole doesn't disappoint. “Why are you so angry at your father, Dorian? He wants to help and you know he does, that he means it when he said he loves you, but you keep forcing yourself not to reach out and meet him there.” 

“I'm... not certain I can explain it to you,” Dorian hesitates, and hates himself slightly for it. “It's... complicated.” 

“You love him, but you're angry. He loves you, but he's sad. It twists and turns, boiling in the belly until it ties itself into a knot, sharps edges digging and making it hard to breathe.” Cole frowns. “But he loves you. And you love him. Why does it hurt so much?” 

“Sometimes,” Dorian says, licking his lips and swallowing hard around the sharp ball digging into his throat, “sometimes love isn't enough.” Cole looks like he wants to say something more, dig in a little deeper, and Dorian stops fighting the urge to flee. “I should go out, now,” he says, voice trembling and refusing to care about it. “See how everyone else is doing.” 

Cole watches him go, not judging, but the look in his eyes promises more questions, and Dorian hopes to at least be thoroughly drunk before that starts. 

  


* * *

  


“I've never _felt_ anything like that before,” Dalish blurts out, once Dorian is done enduring some teasing from Krem and Skinner, and finally makes his way to sit by the fire and maybe eat something. “All that... swoosh! It's like you were hitting it with a big stick, but not... tangible.” 

“Envy demons are very emotional, by nature,” Dorian finds himself explaining, offering a small shrug and an awkward smile in the face of the blatant awe she's throwing his way. “My particular talents are well suited to exploit that.” 

“Do you reckon you could teach me?” Dalish asks, after a moment of long, thoughtful silence. “How to do that?” 

Dorian stares at her and tries to imagine her going through the rituals and enduring the constant backlash of fear and terror those first few months, before one gets the hang of it and learns how to let it go through without getting snagged on it. 

“Figure out barriers first,” he says, rather than the sharp, determined _no_ that echoes in his soul at the thought of putting her through all that. “Then we can work from there.” 

“I'll hold you to that!” Dalish threatens with a giggle, eyes bright and smile pure delight, and Dorian feels like he's been given a gift, and he doesn't know what to do with it. 

“Back on your feet now, are you?” Bull says, walking behind him and saving him further mental gymnastics. He offers a small smirk as he comes to sit next to Dorian and Dorian refuses to think too much about how instantly more relaxed he feels, when he does. “Thought you were going to sleep all the way back to Skyhold at this rate.” 

“What, and miss another wondrous trip across the Hinterlands?” Dorian quips back, eyebrows arched. “Perish the thought.” 

Bull laughs and presses a bowl of stew into Dorian's cold hands. 

“It was a good fight,” he says, as Dorian gives up pretenses and simply inhales it mostly whole. “We kicked that demon's ass all the way back to the Fade.” 

“Yay,” Dorian croaks, trying and failing for a more flippant tone. “Go us.” 

When Bull drops his arm over his shoulders, Dorian keeps expecting the weight to be bothersome. It isn't. Instead he sits there, eating stew until Stitches refuses to refill his bowl once more, and basks in the warmth of the fire and the comfortable laughter as Krem picks on Rocky until they're sharing tall, impossible tales. 

It's only later, as he falls into exhausted sleep besides Bull, that Dorian realizes that, as good as he feels, he's not actually drunk. But not even the revelation keeps him up, when there's a warm spot for him waiting, and as soon as he rests his head on one of Bull's arms, he's out for the count. 

  


* * *

  


Skyhold is a sight for sore eyes, as they make their way along the long bridge into the fortress proper. Dorian didn't need more proof about Corypheus' plans, what with having literally been to their aftermath, but the letters and notes they recovered both from the fortress and the demon's lair are troublesome. Bull takes it upon himself to deliver them straight into Leliana's hands, while Dorian helps Krem get their mounts back into the stables and into Master Dennet's care. He's not sure he wants to know what he looks like, because Blackwall took one look at his face and gruffly offered to buy him a drink. 

That's a first. 

“See anything interesting out there?” Blackwall asks, as Dorian resists the urge to down the ale in one gulp, because otherwise word might get out that he actually likes Ferelden beer, and where would he be then? 

“If we define interesting as the sort of enjoyable experience I would be happy to repeat, then no,” he says, resting an elbow on the bar so he can hold his chin on his hand and give Blackwall a properly morose look. “If we, however, define it as the sort of outrageous, ludicrous insanity I never much dealt with before signing over my soul to the Inquisition? Then yes. Oh, yes, _very_ interesting.” 

“Heh,” Blackwall smirks, but then sobers up, frowning. “We... had our share of interesting things. Interesting people came to visit, while you were gone.” 

“Warden Blackwall,” Dorian says, mock-scandalized, “are you trying to gossip?” 

“Maybe,” he retorts gruffly, “figured you outta know. Since... yeah.” Blackwall's beard twitches slightly and Dorian takes another slightly too long sip as he watches him try to puzzle the right words, then give up with a sigh. “Your father was here.” 

Dorian doesn't so much choke as spit out his drink. Right on Blackwall's face. 

“Yes,” he sighs. “My thoughts exactly. He's gone now, for what it's worth. You just missed him.” 

“ _Good_ ,” Dorian snarls, as he stomps out of the tavern without looking back. 

Blackwall sighs and drops the coins on the bar. He shrugs at Cabot's best sullen glare. 

“On the whole, still worth it.” 

  


* * *

  


“I need you to hurt me,” Dorian says as he flings the door open. “Nice and good, until I can't think straight.” 

He finds Bull sitting on the bed, reading a letter. If Dorian were slightly less upset, he would notice it takes Bull a moment to drop the serious frown and offer the usual grin. But he's not, so he doesn't. 

“Yeah?” Bull slides off the bed and makes his way to Dorian, not stopping even as he drops the letter into the open chest at the foot of the bed, casually careless. “I might be in the mood to hurt someone,” he says, reaching out to hold Dorian's face in his hands. “You sure you're up for that, big guy?” 

They haven't fucked, properly, since before they set out to chase demons in Therinfal Redoubt, despite sharing a tent most nights. It just didn't feel right, first in the middle of a hunt, and then afterwards, handling the fallout of the demon bullshit. But here, in Skyhold, behind secure walls and with nothing more pressing... or nothing they actually want to handle first, in the way? 

Bull is struck by the notion they might be too well suited for each other, sometimes. He also knows this is, at best, trying to delay the inevitable. The letter will be there, once he's done with Dorian, and its contents will not have changed as if by magic. He knows exactly what he's supposed to be doing, but for the first time in a very long time, he decides to give priority to what he wants, instead. More so when Dorian presses his hands into his sides and then digs in his nails, just the right way to make sparks run up and down his spine. 

“By all means,” Dorian laughs, high strung and brittle. “Do your worst.” 

Bull asks for the watch-word. Twice. 

Then he sets out to do just that. 

  


* * *

  


Later, much later, when Dorian is pliable and boneless, lying on his chest and peacefully ignoring the cooling tear tracks on his cheeks as he runs his fingers over the forest of scars on Bull's skin, Bull decides this will be one of the things he'll miss most, when it's all over. 

  


* * *

  



	3. tal-vashoth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Iron Bull hates Tal-Vashoth, but it's not entirely irrational, so it's okay. (No, it most certainly is not.)

  


* * *

  


_iii. tal-vashoth_

  


* * *

  


The Valo-Kas arrive at a strangely sedate pace that makes Bull's teeth ache, he's clenching them too tight. Fifteen Tal-Vashoth pass through the gates astride massive war horses that are proportional to their size. They look worn and tired, and most of them are wounded. The letter Bull received cataloged their travels across northern Orlais, after Inquisition forces liberated them, and he at least believes the wounds are real enough. But he still tenses horribly as he watches them dismount and approach Cullen, running his eyes over the crowd to try and spot the tell-tale glint of madness in their eyes, the inherent malice of a lost soul. 

_Tal-Vashoth._

The Valo-Kas is infamous, among the Ben-Hassrath, as a unique organization that challenges the accepted and well-known truths about Tal-Vashoth. Bull has known about them for almost as long as he's been serving. The mysterious Tal-Vashoth mercenary company that never seemed to change... and consequently, never seemed to _end_. Reports always come of members dying during some mission or another, sometimes sabotaged by Ben-Hassrath agents themselves. But then come a few weeks later, sometimes even less, a new report will arrive detailing the company taking a new job on the other edge of the world, made no smaller by the losses. They are like ghosts, staying around long enough to get their job done, and then vanishing from sight until they're contracted again. Reports on their leadership all point to a single name, Shokrakar – _Rebel_. Unlike other Tal-Vashoth groups around Thedas, the Valo-Kas seem almost insultingly fond of magic, keeping their mage members unleashed and treating them, according to whispers by Ben-Hassrath that got close enough to watch but not close enough to capture, like _family_. 

Bull knows part of the reason he was ordered to keep an eye on the Inquisition was because Adaar is publicly associated with them. The Breach is dangerous magic, of course, and Bull didn't lie to Adaar when he told her that. But the Valo-Kas are more dangerous, in the long run. 

The Valo-Kas spreads far and wide across Thedas, kiths that operate under all nations yet answer to a single, never-seen but well-known leader; like a mockery of an army built on the cannibalized remnants of broken, lost Qunari. It sits cold and uncomfortable in Bull's gut, the knowledge that Adaar – quiet, witty, sly, wise Adaar, that looked at him and conquered her fears to welcome him in her Inner Circle – is part of that. 

The realization that he _cares_ is even worse. 

“I know you don't like it,” Leliana tells him, startling him as she apparently appears out of thin air at his side. “But do you really think we could have just let the Inquisitor's family die, while she was away?” 

Bull likes Leliana, most of the time. And not just because he has a distinct weakness for redheads. Leliana is a spy and a killer and an enforcer, same as him, and when pushing comes to shoving, she speaks a close enough approximation to his own language that makes him feel at ease in her presence, even when he knows he most emphatically shouldn't. 

“Keep an eye on them,” Bull says instead, flexing his fingers before crossing his arms over his chest. “Figure out the best way to eliminate each and every one of them, and be ready to spring into action, at a moment's notice.” 

“Surely-” 

“These aren't _Vashoth_ ,” Bull snaps, voice low, and looks down at Leliana with a scowl. “These aren't kids like the Inquisitor, going about their lives figuring out shit as best they can because it's the only thing they've ever known. These are _Tal-Vashoth_. Traitors and rebels and murderers, doomed to succumb to madness sooner or later, because the Qun was all they knew, the Qun was all that kept them sane, and without it they are little more than mindless beasts that'll prey on the weak at the first chance they get.” 

“Many people have said the same about the rebel mages,” Leliana replies, voice smooth and musical, as if to remind Bull she's by no means a minstrel. “And look how wrong they’ve proven to be.” 

Bull thinks of fog, ash and impotent rage, day in and day out, patrolling the lawless wilderness of Seheron and praying today would be the one day he would not turn around a corner and find a cobble path slick with innocent's blood. He remembers the sickening sound of a beast crushing bone between their bloodstained teeth, too far gone for anything more complicated than their bare hands, and still causing too much damage before going down. 

“Many people are full of shit,” Bull replies, voice on the deadened end of the spectrum, “and don't know what the fuck they're talking about.” 

  


* * *

  


“Explain it to me,” Dorian says, sitting dangerously on the edge of the battlements, Bull's newfound strategic location to oversee both the main courtyard and the garden. “In tiny words, if you please, I'm... not quite sure I understand.” 

Bull lets out a deep, annoyed breath and shakes his head. 

“No.” 

Dorian blinks a bit and then sighs. 

“I suppose that _is_ a tiny word,” he says wryly, studying the tension pulling at Bull's shoulders almost clinically. “May I ask why?” 

“This isn't a game, Dorian,” Bull hisses, betraying some of the deeply angry violence curling in his gut, with nowhere to go because nothing has happened yet and he's not allowed to act until something does. The certainty that they will all regret that only makes everything worse. “This isn't-” 

“I know that,” Dorian replies, voice surprisingly steel-like, as he reaches a hand and rests it on Bull's arm. “I want to understand what you're feeling, and why you feel that way, if possible. And it is not only because I have a deliciously witty retort to any set up you might give me.” 

“What do you care?” Bull snaps, irrationally annoyed and very keenly aware of it, but also too damn angry to be anything else. 

He needs to hit something, he realizes, something big and terrible and deadly, or he might legitimately go crazy himself. Dorian's laugh sets his teeth on edge, but his words actually disarm him. 

“Because you’re my friend, you big daft cow,” he says, looking vaguely exasperated. “I find myself in the unenviable position of actually trusting your judgment more often than not.” 

Bull takes a deep breath. Then another. Then closes his eyes and gives into temptation to lean on the battlements more heavily. 

“Seheron,” he says, awkward as he tries to layer enough meaning into the word and hoping maybe that'll be enough to keep the images from flashing across the back of his eyes again. 

Dorian breathes out a soft, hissing sigh. 

“Ah,” he says. “Of course.” 

  


* * *

  


Three members of the Valo-Kas are mages. 

Dorian is intrigued by the way they're not singled out for it, within their small troop. Certainly, these are Vashoth – or Tal-Vashoth, like Bull likes to hiss every now and then, eyes narrowed and jaw tense – so of course the traditional Qunari nuances of leashing, collaring and otherwise brutalizing their mages are lost to them, but Dorian can't rightly recall the last time he dealt with a mixed group in the South that didn't seem even a little bit on edge around their mages... aside from the Inquisition. 

Shokrakar, their leader, is relatively tiny, for one of her race, certainly shorter than Adaar. Her horns are twisted like corkscrews at each side of her face, the tips capped with gold. Her eyes are bright green and she bares her teeth when she smiles, which is always. She punches and kicks her troop to get their attention, but while Dorian is certain she'd be breaking his bones if he was in the receiving end of it, the rest of the Valo-Kas take it in stride with laughs and little taunts. 

Try as he might, he can't quite imagine Adaar among them. Or well, he can, because he has an excellent imagination and quite the stubborn streak to force it to go where he wants, but the... the indent isn't there. The metaphorical hole among the Valo-Kas, where Adaar would fit in seamlessly. She's the kind of person who would leave that kind of space behind, and her absence should be felt. Dorian refuses to consider it's simply because he finds the Inquisitor to be a dear, true friend, or that he might be biased. 

Of the three mages, Dorian selects a stocky, thin-by-comparison woman to make his approach. Unlike the rest of Skyhold, for whom the difference between a Vashoth like the Inquisitor and the Tal-Vashoth that make Bull's teeth clench on reflex is negligible, Dorian is sufficiently aware of the not-so-subtle nuance in terminology. To the others, they're all tall and horned and indistinguishable from one another. Know one, know them all, and all they know is Adaar, who by Dorian's calculations is exceptional no matter what scale she's measured against. Even Varric, hailing from Kirkwall and having lived through that awkward Qunari not-invasion, thinks in skewed terms of loyalties. 

But Dorian grew up in Qarinus, with tales of Tal-Vashoth pirate raids and troops coming and going to Seheron. He doesn't pretend to understand the true depth of it, not the way someone like Bull does – Bull who has all but admitted to having been there, but staunchly refuses to share more than implications and off-hand remarks. 

In Qarinus, stories of Seheron talk about the enemies, in plural, rather than the standard Imperial understanding of a single, unified force. In Qarinus, one knows there is the Qunari, with their dreadnoughts and their brainwashing of weak willed slaves, and one knows there are Tal-Vashoth, who are ruthless and vicious and in some heated Chantry sermons, the personification of everything that ever made the Maker turn His back on the world. 

Dorian grew up in Qarinus, watching the trail of broken soldiers washing upon the shores after Seheron spat them out, chewed and used and worthless. Their officers received once every season in his home, door thrown wide open for a banquet at his mother's table to reward their service. And out there in the tavern on the uglier side of the city walls, Dorian would sit on the bar and buy soldiers a drink for every story they shared, starving for anything other than his father's biting letters and his mother's quiet demands. 

So Dorian does not dismiss the Iron Bull's knee-jerk disdain. Dorian does not crack well-meaning jokes meant to diffuse tension, because Dorian understands why the disdain is there. Abstractly, perhaps, but abstractly is still leagues better than most. He is not, however, an irrational man. He's tried so very hard to not be, at least. So while he considers Bull's concerns to be founded on entirely solid grounds, he refuses to follow them blindly. Dorian would not be Dorian – his father would not drink so much, he thinks – if he could be trusted to simply follow blindly. 

He sets out to test if there's anything to justify Bull's thirst for violence instead. The mage he's chosen to approach is quiet and less overt than the rest of the troop. Her name, Dorian discovers, after two days of making small talk and getting past the prerequisite scrutiny and distrust, is Issala, and much like Bull fears, she is not Vashoth. It's not until she wipes the vitaar off her face, that Dorian sees the scars lining her lips, and something small and burning settles in his gut, aching and yawning as it threatens to swallow him whole. He thinks it might be rage. It's reasonable, after all. It's one thing to know something, to use it to fuel taunts and sneers, and it's something else entirely to _know_ it, to see its aftermath and realize the gravity it deserves. 

“You like Adaar,” Issala tells him, a few days later, with a small tilt of her head and a smile that doesn't show it, because the vitaar is thick and covers them very well, but now that Dorian knows what lies beneath, he can imagine it stretches the scars. “It's alright,” she adds, nodding at something Dorian can't quite understand. “I like her too. Taught her, for a while.” 

“Ah, so it is you I must rail at, for her shoddy handle on ice elementa?” Dorian asks, teasingly, and refuses to examine why her knowing, relaxed look makes him feel small. 

“I was always bad, at ice,” Issala says, offering a small shrug. “Fire came much easily. It feeds from anger.” 

Dorian thinks of that tavern, in Qarinus, and the many, drunken stories that he was told. He thinks of Bull's back, knotted up in all the wrong places. He thinks of Adaar, eyes bright and smile sly. 

“I thought you'd have been great at ice,” he tells her, sincerely, not a shred of mockery in his tone, “since it feeds from hatred.” 

Issala laughs. She's got a nice laugh, almost musical. Dorian wonders if she sings. 

“Hatred binds,” she says, shaking her head and making him feel extremely young. “Pulls you together, cause and effect. I broke free. Peeled the shackles. Hatred is nothing to me.” 

“Yes...” Dorian replies, smile thin and wavering, “I see it now, where Adaar gets it from.” 

Issala laughs, and Dorian feels deeply humbled in not so many words. 

  


* * *

  


Bull follows Dorian along the serpentine path barely visible on the snowed rocks and takes a moment to marvel at the fact he didn't question the invitation or the reasons behind it. He wasn't even sharing a bed with Dorian at the time. Rather, Dorian stormed into his little corner of the tower behind the Herald's Rest and dragged him along to... well, he still isn't sure where they're going, actually. 

“You like to hits things, like the great barbaric beast you most certainly aren't,” Dorian explains, clinging to his staff and trying to ignore the constant shivering. “So let's find you something to hit until you feel better.” 

Dorian doesn't do well out in the snow, after all. Or the swamps. Or the beach. Or the Hinterlands. Bull is oddly touched by the lack of complaining, considering the knee-deep snow. 

“A dragon would be nice,” he says, wistfully, in lieu of something that'd make Dorian awkward and defensive, like the small curl of gratitude sitting quietly in his gut. 

“...well, now I just feel inadequate,” Dorian deadpans, though he's smiling a sliver, wry as always. 

Bull finds himself smiling back almost on reflex, as he always does when he sees that expression on Dorian's face. He sees it often, these days, aimed at him. It's nice. 

“I can name a few things you are outstanding at, if it helps,” he says, grinning when Dorian splutters theatrically. 

“A few!” He laughs, “I'm thoroughly offended. I am excellent at essentially everything I set out to do, thank you ever so much.” 

“What did you set out to do this time, then?” Bull asks, rather than fall for the opening for snark. 

He likes trading little sniping jokes with Dorian, alright, but he's still tense and annoyed deep down, and it ends up coming out mean-spirited, more often than not. Better to keep a lid on it, he figures, rather than subject Dorian to that. Although the fact he's consistently avoided their little wit games in the last few days is partly the reason why Dorian seems to have taken upon himself to... make him feel better? 

Bull thinks of Dorian wrapped up in rope, breathing out his name like a prayer, and wonders how he plans to outdo that, this time. 

“You _like_ hitting things,” Dorian says, matter-of-fact, though he also sounds like he doesn't quite understand the reasoning behind that. “It's wholly barbaric, and yet terribly hot. You also like hitting things until they stop moving and that's very much frowned upon within Skyhold walls. Cullen does not have an unlimited supply of young, strapping soldiers waiting to be slaughtered, after all.” When Bull snorts, Dorian offers a small, sharp smile that betrays a degree of uncertainty. “I... figured I could give you something to hit until it stopped moving, to make you feel better. Something no one would actually care about and wouldn't involve undue cleanup.” 

“...magic?” Bull keeps his face and his tone as neutral as possible, despite the flare of dread in the pit of his gut. He's not sure entirely why. It's not like Dorian is a stranger to his general feelings about magic. A thought occurs to him, slippery and dangerous, like the road they've walked to get here. “Necromancy.” 

Bull looks around the snowed wasteland for a moment and realizes the tiny dot down below in the distance are the ruins of Haven. 

“Well,” Dorian says, looking over the heavily snowed slope of mountain they happen to be crossing. “The Inquisitor did bury a good chunk of that Red Templar army here, and I don't reckon anyone cares much about the bodies.” He tilts his chin up, defiantly, and Bull imagines a snake coiling back to pretend it's bigger than it really is. “It's not _just_ for your sake, at any rate. I'm... not quite as skilled as I could be, at this particular venue. I could use the exercise, if you're game for it.” 

Bull's first gut reaction is to say no. It's further exacerbated by the tension pulling at his shoulders, however, and that in itself makes him pause. He does need to hit something until it or him breaks, and Dorian is quite correct in his assessment of the mood in Skyhold and the only possible reaction for it. Bull is not used to being on the receiving end of that kind of pragmatic thoughtfulness, regarding his own moods. He's the one who reaches out and figures out what other people need, because he's good at getting into their heads and he sometimes chooses to use it for their benefit, rather than their detriment. 

He takes a moment to review his interactions with Dorian, to find the opening he must have left, for the mage to sneak into his skull and get a good read of him. Everyone leaves openings like that, Bull knows that, because it's his bread and butter to exploit them. He tries to leave his own consciously and on purpose, for the sake of being aware of exactly what he shares and minimize the mind games that could be played on him. 

Dorian is still patiently waiting for his reply, as he comes out the other side infuriatingly empty-handed. 

If Dorian were someone else, Bull realizes, he'd stretch the silence longer, just for the sake of making him nervous and betray his game. But he realizes he trusts Dorian to be upfront about things. The realization of that trust is no less strange than the previous times he's stumbled upon it. There's trust, in Bull's experience, understood as the prerequisite for any interaction – a chat, a fight or even a fuck – and then there's Trust, the kind that is hard earned and weighs one down if one isn't careful with it. 

Very consciously, he turns his back on that thought and decides not to examine in depth, which one Dorian has amassed thus far. 

“How does it work?” Bull asks, and feels strangely relieved when Dorian's shoulders relax a sliver. 

“Do not be alarmed,” Dorian says, offering a small smile, before closing his eyes and stretching his left hand forward. 

A faint purplish glow gathers on his hand and then, as his fingers twitch, Bull feels the snow shake beneath his feet. Despite his best attempts, he's very much alarmed, more so when a fist punches through the frost and the corpse, skin blue and expression frozen in horror, crawls its way out. It merely stands in place, however, sword loosely held in his hand. 

“There is a hierarchy,” Dorian explains, in a nice, even voice that Bull realizes is trying to soothe him, but isn't doing a very good job of it, all things considered, “among spirits. The ones we've seen, demons or that charming Command creature in Crestwood, they're fully formed. They have chosen an aspect to define them and fed on it to gain sentience. But despite their supposed inability to change, spirits come from _something_. Wisps.” His hand twitches slightly, and the corpse moves, as if pulled by strings, its movements awkward. Bull realizes it is now standing to attention, offering a mockery of a salute. “Wisps are tiny bits of the Fade twisted on themselves, the beginnings of something more, but still too weak and too shapeless to be independent. They're easy enough, to pull through the Veil, if you know how. They can't do it on their own, but a guiding hand can anchor them, if there's a... vessel available.” 

“So what,” Bull asks, and finds his throat is dry and almost parched, “you use them to raise the dead?” 

The corpse offers a stilted, uncanny bow. It makes Bull's skin crawl. 

“I do not raise the dead,” Dorian says, enunciating clearly, “because that would be blood magic.” He lets the words linger for a moment, but Bull can't see his expression. That would require him to turn around and give his back to the misshapen monstrosity standing before him, and he's not in a rush to do that. “I mean, I could,” Dorian goes on after the moment's passed, voice airy and slightly strained. “But that would require a considerable amount of... fuel, to drag the corresponding soul back into this plane, and I'm not partial to try it. It's not an exact science, and I believe it's been rarely done successfully. I use wisps, instead, cluster enough inside the vessel and use them to apply motion where required.” He offers a small, awkward laugh. “It's even harder than I remembered. I'm very much out of practice. I much prefer to use fear. I'm good at handling it, and one needn't worry about impending demons with it.” 

“Demons,” Bull says, perhaps a tad more breathless than intended. 

Dorian is quiet for a long moment, long enough Bull reluctantly takes his eyes off the corpse. He finds him standing in place, expression sour. 

“When we fought the Envy demon,” Dorian says, slowly and controlled, each word measured carefully, “I mentioned Harrowings, did I not?” 

Bull forces himself to remember the fight, and allows the memory of Dorian's look-alike shrieking with an inhuman voice to flood back into his mind. He stops himself before he remembers everything else that came with that, the faces that stared at him before he cut them down. 

“You said only Necromancers go through them, in Tevinter,” Bull replies dutifully, swallowing hard and feeling his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth when he does. 

“Wisps are not spirits or demons, not yet,” Dorian explains, mouth pulled into a taunt little smile that Bull still thinks would be better off as a snarl. “But they could be. Only... only they've tasted what being human is like, something close to it. And if you hold onto them too long, if you're too weak to keep your hold on them steady or if you don't scatter them away properly, when you're done... they want _more_.” Dorian's eyes glint a dark, unnatural purple, Bull realizes, and he clenches his fists tight enough to make his knuckles white. “Demons born of a Necromancer's mishaps are always Envy. If it's any consolation, the idiot who creates them is usually the first one to fall to them. So one learns, early on, how to deal with them. Fairly reasonable, yes?” 

Bull doesn't ask Dorian why the hell he chose Necromancy as his chosen specialty. Bull doesn't ask Dorian how old he was, when he went through his Harrowing. Bull doesn't even ask Dorian where he even learned that kind of shit. 

Bull slides the ax from his back and turns to look at the corpse again, jaw set. 

He's not expecting the creature to parry the blow with its sword, movements unnaturally fast. 

Dorian barks a small, awkward laugh. 

“Well, it wouldn't be much of a challenge, if they only stood there,” he says, as his puppet twirls the sword dramatically, movements much smoother but still unnatural. It doesn't block the next hit and Bull cleaves it nearly in half. “It's... it's okay if you don't want to. It's a stupid-” 

“How many can you keep up, at once?” Bull asks, watching the corpse and the distracting lack of blood. Then again, he supposes bleeding depends on an actual heart beating. He turns to look at Dorian. Dorian is staring at him with wide eyes. “Do you control every movement?” 

“I...” Dorian clears his throat and twitches his hand, causing the corpse to stand up again. “Yes, I do, and about four is my limit at this moment, I reckon. I used to be able to do upwards to four dozen, at once, when I finished my training, but I've let the skill rust over time.” He looks... distant. Almost sad. “Fear is much more expedient. Subtle, too. Fumbling my way through the South in the middle of the Mage-Templar war also didn't make me too inclined to stick out. Most people don't wait to hear an explanation on the particulars before shrieking _Maleficar!_ ” Dorian shrugs, when Bull's expression remains... what it is, Bull himself isn't sure what it looks like, honestly. “Magic is... a muscle, of sorts. You never forget the motions, but go long enough without going through them and you'll find you no longer move like you used to.” 

Bull shrugs his shoulders, standing up straight, and cracks his neck loudly. Dorian is reminded all of a sudden of what a massive murderous machine the Iron Bull on a full rampage can be. He wonders if he should be ashamed of the tingles that accompany the thought, before he remembers he is now and forever beyond shame of any kind. 

“I can handle four,” Bull replies, tilting his head challengingly at Dorian. “Go through a couple of motions of my own, maybe.” 

“I can't defend myself,” Dorian admits, swallowing hard. “Not when I'm like this and it takes a moment to stop completely, so...” 

“You know what you need to say if you need to stop,” Bull replies, amused despite it all. 

Dorian barks a small, shrill laugh, and twitches his fingers as three other corpses crawl out of the ground. 

“So do you,” he replies, offering a bow, as do all four corpses, shuffling into place. 

Bull takes one good look at Dorian's face, before he turns, ax already swinging, and lets go of the coil of rage curling under his lungs. 

  


* * *

  


Bull loses count somewhere around sixty corpses, butchered into tiny little pieces until they can't stand up again. They're sturdier and stronger than actual men, but then he supposes being dead they're no longer bound by things like stamina or pain. 

Dorian stands still for a long time, after Bull calls out for him to stop. 

“I'd forgotten,” he says, finally, stepping closer to where Bull's sitting on the caked snow, trying to catch his breath. “How... strong the pull can be.” 

“You alright, big guy?” Bull asks, and startles when Dorian twirls his staff and slashes his palm on the blade. 

His blood drips down, but rather than freeze as it falls, it bursts into a dark, orange flame. The bits and pieces of corpse left behind Bull's rampage ignite themselves quietly, as well. 

“I'll be,” Dorian sighs, and Bull watches, and really isn't sure he's allowed to watch, as he shuffles back into himself, all at once. 

“Dorian.” 

Bull says nothing else, because he's unsure what else needs to be said. He's not the magic guy. Magic bullshit makes him break into damn hives and then he needs someone to hit with him a stick for a few hours before he can feel himself again. Only he reckons Dorian would not appreciate similar treatment, unless the stick was a lame metaphor for his cock. And even then... 

“We call it vital magic,” he says, looking down at Bull, and his eyes are now grey and vibrant again, just like Bull remembers them. “Magic based solely on your own blood, or blood given willingly. It's not... it's different, from blood magic. Proper blood magic. But it does involve pulling you away from the Fade, dampening it a little.” Dorian stares at his palm, glistening red, with an expression Bull has never seen before. “I am truly so out of practice that I'm forced to settle it down with this. I might conjure a facsimile of shame to commemorate the occasion, in fact.” 

Bull feels his little ball of awkward and painful feelings tucked in his gut twitch dangerously. He takes stock of himself, the looseness of his limbs and the ease of his breath. He swallows hard. 

“Maybe you just need more practice,” Bull says, not sure why and resists the urge to lean in and wipe his tongue across Dorian's palm. That would be weird, he reckons. “Maybe we could...” 

_Do it again_ , he doesn't finish, eye intently fixed on Dorian's blank expression. He swallows hard. 

“Only if you promise to fuck me unconscious every time we do,” Dorian replies honestly, and offers a faint smile that can't quite reach his eyes. 

“Sure,” Bull replies, only realizing he didn't wait the traditional pause by the slight widening of Dorian's eyes, “was already planning to, if you were game.” 

The smile, then, is much better and puts the angry rolling of Bull's gut to rest, if only for a bit. 

  


* * *

  


By the end of the month, Dorian has bumped his limit up to twenty increasingly nimble corpses, Bull has figured out sixteen new ways to chop limbs off a body, and blood is no longer required at the end of their little sessions. 

“You're a field healer,” Dorian says, coming to sit next to Issala in the tavern, and Bull is not tense, not entirely, but he can't help but notice that Dorian chose the side of the table that puts him in clear view of him. “You taught Adaar.” 

“What I could, yes,” she replies, serene, offering a small shrug. 

Dorian nods slowly, like they're sharing one secret joke. Issala indulges him by arching her eyebrows and not setting him on fire where he stands. Bull strains himself to not show how hard he's trying to eavesdrop. 

He's... mostly okay, with the Valo-Kas by now. Mostly. He still keeps an eye on them, as they come ago around Skyhold, but he no longer feels the knee-jerk urge to reach for his ax when he sees them. 

“I am a terrible healer,” Dorian confesses, loud enough Bull can hear him perfectly but doesn't look in his direction at all, “perhaps you could give me some pointers, to get better.” 

“Perhaps,” Issala replies, and promises nothing. 

Dorian looks pleased, and Bull realizes he's not murderously against the idea, himself. 

_Huh_ . 

  


* * *

  


“Inquisitor!” Cullen rushes to the gates to receive the returning scouting party, expression resolute. “There's been-” 

“Shut. Up.” Herah Adaar, (Reluctant) Herald of Andraste and (Goddamn) Inquisitor, snaps at him with enough bared teeth to make a dragon self-conscious. 

Because Cullen is not, in fact, an idiot, he shuts up immediately. 

“There were bears,” Cassandra offers as explanation, riding behind the Inquisitor and giving Cullen an exhausted stare but doesn't actually stop in front of him. 

“Bears that actually deserve the qualifier of _Great_ ,” Varric adds, as Vivienne storms past them in a flurry of annoyed dignity, despite the muck and grime clinging to her ankles and the damning smudge on her cheek. 

“Fuck bears, basically,” Sera declares miserably, “ _and_ the Dales, _and_ the Dalish, _and_ Coryphispit, but mostly? Just... the bears. _Fuck bears_.” 

Cullen watches them go with a slight frown, but then he takes a look at the harrowed-looking troops following after them and resists the urge to wince. 

All in all, he decides, it can wait. 

  


* * *

  


Dorian does not give into the uncouth urge to hug the Inquisitor when she enters his field of vision. The urge is there, undoubtedly, but he knows better. Besides, just as he's making his way through the great hall – not rushing in to hug her like some wailing damsel from Varric's putrid tripe, thank you oh so much – Adaar freezes in place when she spots the Valo-Kas sitting at the table they have claimed as their own during their stay. They are the Inquisitor's family, after all, they're fed and kept within the fortress' main keep, rather than sent out to one of the towers, like the Chargers, or out into the valley, with the rest of the Inquisition's army. 

“Adaar,” Shokrakar says magnanimously, advancing slowly with her arms spread wide, in a mockery of motherly concern, “child, it has been so long!” 

Dorian carefully catalogs the expression on Adaar's face: shock, relief, surprise, horror... and then her face falls into a blank mask that would make a pompous Orleisian proud, and swiftly kicks Shokrakar square in the face, with enough force it drops her out cold at once. 

The Valo-Kas erupt in loud, shrieking laughter. 

Dorian isn't entirely sure he's happy, when he's not thrown out of the main hall along with anyone not lucky – or unlucky, Dorian's not quite sure at the moment – to belong to the Inquisitor's Inner Circle. 

“Right,” Adaar says, taking a deep breath and ignoring the stares and the cackling with her characteristic aplomb. “I should explain, shouldn't I?” 

  


* * *

  


Adaar doesn't say anything that Bull didn't know already, about the Valo-Kas and their furtive hierarchy. She isn't even... angry. It's a Valo-Kas thing, she says, giving Bull a wry smile, like she can see the inside of his skull, and then once Shokrakar wakes up again, she hugs the woman like a sister. 

Bull doesn't ask. 

Cullen does, because Cullen can never help himself, that's why politics are always left to Leliana or Josephine, after all. Cullen doesn't get a straight answer, though, not that Bull expects otherwise. 

In the end, the Valo-Kas leave for the Hinterlands, now under the Inquisition's coin, and Bull stares at the empty paper before him, trying to find a way to word the report properly. 

The Valo-Kas are gone, now – that's the whole point of the conundrum – but Bull wonders if Dorian would still be game to do their thing... their thing that isn't about sex, that is. 

Well, maybe that, too. 

Bull ignores the fact they have far too many things to keep track of, because the moment he acknowledges that, will be the day they'll have to actually talk about them, instead of letting them just be... _things_. 

Bull tells himself it is only because Dorian would hyperventilate horribly, if he were to bring it up, nothing more. 

  


* * *

  


“ _What did you find?_ ” 

Dorian makes a little hooting sound in the back of his throat when Cassandra grabs him by the shirt and he realizes his feet are no longer touching the ground. He's actually taller than Cassandra by a couple inches, so he reckons they look a little silly, but the feat of strength is not undermined by that in the slightest. 

“Red Templars... well, one _assumes_ they used to be Templars, they were mostly walking red lyrium monsters,” Dorian replies calmly, certainly more calmly than anyone facing a rabid Seeker should rightly be, and goes as far as to offer a wry little smile. “Oh, and an Envy demon. The Iron Bull can tell you _all_ about the Envy demon, he cleaved it in half a dozen times before it went down.” 

“And Lord Seeker Lucius?” Cassandra demands, shaking him a little, in a way somewhat reminiscent of a misbehaving cat. “Did you find him?” 

“Possibly?” Dorian shrugs. “I'm not exactly an expert in telling red lyrium monstrosities apart. I usually just throw magic at them until they explode and stop trying to kill me.” 

Cassandra shakes him a little more in frustration, before she lets him go and stomps away without looking back. 

“Sparkler,” Varric says, wry and yet oddly impressed, suddenly reminding Dorian that there was an audience after all, “I believe I owe you fifty royals.” When Dorian merely stares, Varric laughs. “For finding something scarier and deadlier than a dragon, and facing it with aplomb.” 

Dorian thinks of the Iron Bull on a bloodthirsty rampage, cutting down corpses faster than Dorian can keep them up, all power and fury and violence. 

Dorian smiles and demands his payment in pickled plums. 

  


* * *

  


Bull calls for Adaar, rather than Dorian. 

He really meant to sit Dorian down and redraw some boundaries, maybe include their little trips to Haven in the arrangement, but one of Leliana's runners reaches him before he can start on the staircase up to the main hall. Bull forgets about Dorian all together, after he's done reading. He sends Skinner out to find Adaar and Rocky to find Krem, and then he beats the shit out of Krem for a bit, under the guise of training. He thinks Krem can see right through him, but he doubts Krem has enough context to understand what it means. 

“The Qunari are prepared to offer an alliance,” Bull says, without preamble. When Adaar stares, he nods slowly. “Yes, to an Inquisitor who happens to be a Shokrakar of the Valo-Kas.” 

“Let me see the letter,” Adaar says, serene and composed, but there's something hard and dangerous beneath it that Bull never noticed before. 

“It's in Qunlat,” he says, unnecessarily, and before the Valo-Kas arrived and he watched Adaar claim the kith from its leader so effortlessly, Bull would have been surprised when Adaar merely arches an eyebrow at him. “Right.” 

He pulls the letter from his belt, and watches in silence as Adaar's face slowly melts into that stony mask once more. Bull was included in the debrief from the trip to the Emerald Graves, but there's something Adaar isn't telling, something sharp and vicious that makes her eyes glint almost ominously. Bull supposes he'll find out eventually, as he always does, but he's still shaken in his own way and discovering he doesn't know Adaar as well as he thought he did annoys him. He supposes Dorian wouldn't have that problem: thick as thieves, him and Adaar. 

The thought of using Dorian to dig into Adaar a little deeper occurs to him, timely because it's his job, but he dismisses it all the same. 

No point in poisoning the well for the sake of a sip, he tells himself and he's not sure he's comforted when he realizes he believes it. 

“Shit,” Adaar says after a moment, offering the letter back. “My Qunlat is terrible and I still got most of that. It wasn't even ciphered.” 

Bull doesn't ask her the obvious question – because down that road is madness and betrayal and an entire realm of possibilities he's not sure he's ready to confront – and instead offers a small, muted shrug. 

“Delivery ensures it's not necessary,” he offered and waited, not sure for what. 

Adaar sighs, soft and terrible. 

“We... need to talk, don't we,” she says, and she looks older and tired and also strangely wiser. Bull tries to find another flare of panic or fear, always teasing at the edges of her public persona, and finds nothing at all. “Let's go for a walk.” 

  


* * *

  


There are outpost towers all around Skyhold, six of them, positioned around the surrounding cliffs for maximum visibility. Despite the ever growing bulk of the Inquisition, only four are operational. Bull follows Adaar along the winding path towards one of the abandoned ones, and wonders if he's about to die. There's a table, in the highest floor of the tower, and a surprising collection of wine bottles cluttered about, most of them full. 

“I can't get drunk in public,” Adaar says, a tired smile tugging at her lips when she realizes where his eye's gone. “Josephine has kittens every time I try. So I come here. The rate we're going, I'll need a new hideout soon enough, but for now, this is it.” Her expression turns guarded. “ _Asala hedan-sataa_.” 

Bull focuses on her pronunciation, first, the way her lips wrapped around the words and her voice flowed through them smoothly. He hadn't lied, when he'd said he imagined she'd be turned into a mindless drone under the Qun. The thought had been uncomfortable then, and it was uncomfortable now. 

“ _Ebadim aqun, ashii talan_ ,” Bull says, and very carefully forces his hands to hang loosely at his sides. 

The tense moment passes, but Bull finds himself unable to relax. 

“I did not explicitly lie to you,” Adaar says, going to sit on the table so she can look out the window. “I am Vasoth. I never lived under the Qun.” She reaches for the nearest bottle, not really looking at it as she opens it and takes a long, thorough swing of it. “My mother was Qunari though. My mother was _saarebas_. Branded and bound. Then... she was not, and she became Tal-Vashoth. It is not my place to tell you more on that.” 

“Because _Ben-Hassrath_ , yeah,” Bull replies, offering a small shrug. 

“No,” Adaar snorts. “I mean, yes, obviously. But truthfully? Because Shokrakar would murder me. The _actual_ Shokrakar.” 

“Fair enough,” Bull nods, and offers an equally thin smile to match hers. 

“My magic came to me, when I was ten,” Adaar goes on, quiet. She takes another swing of the bottle, and Bull marvels at the looseness of the gesture. “My mother wouldn't... _couldn't_ teach me, so she sent me to the Valo-Kas. They taught me how not to get myself turned into an abomination, how to use my power responsibly and sixty different ways to ruin someone's day with a great sword.” She tries to chuckle, but it sounds hollow. Forced. Bull tries to imagine her fighting with a sword rather than a staff, instead, and is disturbed by how well he can picture it. “They also taught me about the Qun. Bits and pieces they missed and a whole lot about what they hated. Mostly it didn't make much sense. But they raised me, Bull, and I imagine that has little weight for you, because you're Qunari and I'm _not_.” She takes a deep breath, lets it out as a long hiss. “They're my family and Par Vollen wants them dead.” 

Bull doesn't bother to deny it. It would be a lie, and they both know it. 

“The only Tal-Vashoth I've ever known were from Seheron,” he admits as he gives up and crosses his arms defensively over his chest. “The only Tal-Vashoth I've ever known deserved to be _dead_.” 

“We know,” Adaar whispers, leaning against the wall as she grimaces. “We put down as many as we have to. We don't like it, but it needs to be done.” 

“I thought the Valo-Kas would take any Tal-Vashoth willing to swing a sword,” he hadn't meant for it to sound so bitter, honest. 

He wonders if Dorian will be agreeable for another round of hitting things until they stop moving once he's done here. If he walks out of here alive. He's still not sure. He's never been sure, with Adaar. 

“We will,” Adaar agrees, graciously ignoring his outburst, even though her eyes are hard and dangerous. “And then we'll put them down, if Shokrakar can't get through to them.” 

Bull is assaulted by the realization that it doesn't sound too different from what the Qunari do with Tevinter slaves they liberate. Take them all in, and then weed out the lost cases. The thought sits angry in his gut. 

“So what now?” He asks, rather than let himself stew further. “You... can say no, y'know.” 

“I _want_ to say no,” Adaar admits, swallowing hard. “I've tried very hard to keep the Valo-Kas out of this... the Breach and Corypheus and the Inquisition, and this alliance would put everyone I give a damn about in jeopardy.” She takes another swing, longer this time. “But I can't afford to say no. Orlais is a cesspool of war and politics, and _I hate politics so much_. An alliance with the Qunari would provide the Inquisition the edge it needs to truly do what we set out to do. Resources, intelligence, political weight. Josephine would be besides herself at the idea, I reckon.” She lets out a soft, bitter laugh and raises her hand to stare at the faint green glow coming from it. “I am a mage. I am a Shokrakar of the Valo-Kas. I am the Inquisitor. At the rate this is going, I might as well _be_ the blighted Herald of Andraste. But I can't be all of them at once.” 

“I wanted to murder the Valo-Kas that came here,” Bull blurts out. When she chokes on a snort, he offers a slightly embarrassed shrug. “Dorian... talked me out of it, in the end. But the thought was there. I hate Tal-Vashoth, is the thing. I hate them for good, bloody reasons and I don't think I'll ever really stop. But,” he adds, standing tall for all he feels strangely small, “I want you to know, that no matter your decision, I will stay with the Inquisition, even if you decide against the alliance.” 

The silence stretches as the implications sink in properly. 

“Why?” Adaar asks him, expression painfully open. 

“The dragon, primarily,” Bull replies, offering a brittle grin. 

Adaar bursts into loud, hiccuping laughter. 

“Drink with me, the Iron Bull,” she says, after the laughter dies somewhat. “It's better than the alternative.” 

“Hey, you remembered the article!” Bull laughs, trying to fill the hollow under his ribs, and takes the bottle when she offers it. 

  


* * *

  


Bull avoids Dorian during the trip to the Storm Coast. 

Dorian notices, and infuriatingly, refuses to say anything about it. Adaar, too, gives him all the space he needs, to figure out his thoughts. They haven't really talked, since that day in the lookout tower, and Bull isn't entirely sure how he feels about everything that was said. So he doesn't feel entirely guilty, when he chooses to ride with the Chargers, rather than the Inquisition proper. 

He doesn't know what he'd been expecting, but Gatt was certainly not part of it. 

The instant animosity towards Dorian and Krem, however, manifests itself like clockwork. Bull is surprised by how much it bothers him, despite it all. 

Everything seems to bother him, he realizes, as he watches the Inquisitor study the map carefully. Gatt's loud, abrasive smugness feels strange and yet familiar, like a pair of old boots that no longer fit properly. Dorian's sullen, impertinent looks. Krem's furious scowl. The way the Inquisition sits away, wary and thoughtful. The way the Chargers look at him for answers and for once he's not quite sure he has the right ones. 

Everything is wrong, Bull knows it in his bones, and he makes himself ignore it, despite it all, because he will not be the one who fucks this up. 

He will _not_. 

He gives orders to the Chargers and sets out to hunt down Venatori with as much viciousness as he unleashed on Dorian's puppets. 

It will be alright. 

_It will be alright._

The sour dread in his gut refuses to leave. 

Bull leaps. 

  


* * *

  


In the end, Adaar refuses to make the choice for him. 

Gatt screams behind him, but he's quiet compared to the roaring silence swallowing up his soul. In Krem's rendition of the story of their first meeting, Bull is always described as rushing in without a second thought. Bull has never told Krem otherwise, after all. He is Ben-Hassrath. He survived Seheron. He always has second thoughts. Third ones, too. 

In his mind, he watches things play out, always. 

In his mind, he's master of himself and his choices and he does what needs to be done, not because it's pretty or fun, but because someone must. 

In his mind, Bull sees the Chargers massacred against the rocks and realizes keenly at that moment that for all there is no actual magic involved, it's very much like blood magic, the sacrifice of the few for the sake of the many. 

In his mind, Adaar forgets how to laugh, for good. 

In his mind, Krem promises to make him proud. 

In his mind, Dorian looks at him with disappointment. 

_Asit tal-eb._

In his mind, Hissrad dies a quiet, bitter death. 

  


* * *

  



	4. names

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a Tal-Vashoth is only fit to die, so it's okay if he's already dead inside. (No, what the fuck, no.)

  


* * *

  


_iv. names_

  


* * *

  


The Tal-Vashoth concentrates on the sound of the whetstone sliding along the edge of his ax, allowing the movements to become automatic. There is a deafening roar bubbling somewhere in the back of his mind, threatening to devour everything in its path, but he refuses to acknowledge it just yet. He knows exactly what it is, the death that was chosen for him, in choosing to save Hissrad's Chargers, but he wants to believe he's strong enough to contain it until they're back in Skyhold and he can bow out quietly, to go die somewhere no one else will get hurt. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Dorian asks, voice slithering between the cracks of his awareness and taking him by surprise. 

It is a conscious choice to stay his hand, rather than throw the ax at him on reflex, and the Tal-Vashoth remembers keenly that Hissrad knew how to keep himself in place. He looks up to find Dorian kneeling by the fire, his back turned to him, as he slowly conjures more life into the dying flames in the pit. Such a thoughtless, careless show of trust, that, and he knows that the mage will be made to regret it in the long run. After all, the person Dorian trusts no longer exists, and all that is left is not worth anything at all. 

The Inquisition and the Chargers are camping for the night behind the Hessarians' walls, because Adaar is smart enough to know there will be retribution for the lost dreadnought. 

She'd glared when he'd declared he'd keep guard in the outpost camp, but then bitten her tongue in the end. The Inquisition always follows the Inquisitor's example, and the Tal-Vashoth was allowed to turn his back on the concerned, solemn looks to go sit out by the sea and pretend to keep watch for enemies he knew were not coming just yet. There are reports to be send, decisions to be made, orders to be dispatched. Qunari are nothing if not fond of bureaucracy, of keeping scrupulous track of what is said and done, and allowing the right person to make the right call. It will be days before the announcement is made official and the Ben-Hassrath set out to avenge Hissrad's death. 

The Tal-Vashoth takes another moment to carefully unclench his fingers, one by one, and focuses instead on studying Dorian's face, highlighted dramatically by the angle of the light. The many angry, contradicting thoughts swirling in his head settle eventually on one single question: what would Dorian have done, in Hissrad's place? He doesn't ask, however, because the question itself is irrelevant. It will change nothing. And the man who had cared about Dorian's opinion of him is dead, anyway; he is merely the remnants left behind. Nothing of Hissrad's remains his own: not his name, not his Chargers, not his... thing with Dorian. 

“No,” he replies, reassured once more of who he's not, and bracing himself for the inevitable explanations Dorian will surely demand. 

He would much rather not explain anything at all, to be instead allowed to melt into the nothingness swallowing up the place his soul used to be. But they don't understand, those who never knew order and true peace of mind under the Qun. Hissrad never tried to convert people, once he left Seheron, because it was not his place. He never learned how to do it properly, either, how to unravel the truth into easy, understandable mouthfuls that tasted like fresh water down a parched throat. He wishes, selfishly, that Hissrad had learned to preach properly, that he had prepared the Inquisition for this. That he had taught them the right words to say, to make him bow his head and allow them to take it, that they would know enough to recognize the mercy they would be granting him. 

But Hissrad did not, and now he is dead and all his debts have died with him. 

“I...” Dorian begins, then frowns and offers a small shrug. “Well, no, I _don't_ understand, precisely, but I... sympathize.” He offers the small wry smile that used to make Hissrad feel smug, after he realized he was the only one who got it. “May I stay? Misery does love company, after all.” 

Hissrad would have been strong enough to tell him no. Hissrad would have been witty enough to twist it around and get him talking about himself, instead. Hissrad would have never found himself in this situation in the first place. 

And never will, now, because Hissrad is dead. 

He offers a small, expansive shrug, instead, and watches through hooded eyes as Dorian comes to sit by his side. 

  


* * *

  


They meet Shokrakar in Crestwood as they stop for supplies before starting the trek back to Skyhold, but she's not smiling when she rides up to the Inquisitor, her band of Valo-Kas trailing obediently behind her. 

The Tal-Vashoth says nothing, riding between Krem and Dorian, and focusing very hard on not imploding on command. 

“These are not the Hinterlands,” Adaar says, voice hard as her mount throws its massive antlers forward, threatening to charge. “I told you _explicitly_ to stay in the Hinterlands.” 

“So you did,” Shokrakar replies with a small shrug. “But _She_ commanded otherwise.” She offers a dangerously thin smile. “She's taken notice you, Adaar. She's coming to meet you.” 

Hissrad would have noticed the way the Inquisitor's hands shake as she tightens her grip on her reins. The Tal-Vashoth does not. 

“Don't be ridiculous,” Adaar says, trying to sound authoritarian, and for the first time since the Inquisition's birth, failing miserably at it. She sounds terribly young, at once. “She does not leave the Wilds.” 

“She's left them for you,” Shokrakar snorts. “And She wants to make damn sure you're alive to greet Her, when She arrives.” She spreads her hands, palm side up, but the gesture is hardly placating. “So here we are.” 

The Inquisitor doesn't actually swear out loud, but her silence is eloquent enough. 

  


* * *

  


“Weirdly enough,” Adaar says, coming to sit next to the Tal-Vashoth with a wry smile and a bottle of wine, “I think I know exactly how you feel.” 

She doesn't, because she _can't_. She was born Vashoth, and the grey is all she knows. But the Tal-Vashoth doesn't point it out, because to argue about it would require him to care far more than he's actually capable of right now. He accepts the bottle when she puts it in his hand, but he doesn't really drink from it. He hasn't really eaten or drank anything consciously in the past few days, but not so much out rebellion or hopes to starve himself to death, so much as a genuine lack of interest in it. Besides, he knows – because Hissrad used to know things like that and he's inherited his knowldge if not the willingness to use it – that it'd take far too long for him to starve; the far more likely option is the Ben-Hassrath coming to collect payment for Hissrad's death long before that. 

“You want to die,” she says, blunt but not mean, almost kind, and the Tal-Vashoth is surprised by how relieved he is, to hear someone voice the thought. “You want someone to step up the task and put you down, because you can't stand being what you've become.” 

_Yes_ , he yearns to say, feels the word twitching dangerously on the tip of his tongue. 

“I want someone to step up and put me down, because I know I will hate every second of what's coming up and I'm not entirely sure I will survive it anyway,” she says instead, reaching out, and the Tal-Vashoth passes the bottle back, untouched, without a second thought. “Shokrakar is coming. _The_ Shokrakar. I understand you don't care, exactly, since you're not... him anymore, right? He's dead and you wish you were too. The thing is, he was my friend, even if he was Ben-Hassrath. I don't think I ever told him why, though... Suppose I never will now.” The Inquisitor's eyes are bright and sharp, and the Tal-Vashoth is struck by how clearly they seem to be able to see right through him as well. “I'll have to tell you instead, so maybe you'll understand why I won't kill you myself or why I can't let others try.” She smiles. “Cole.” 

The Tal-Vashoth is surprised by his own surprise. When the bottle is pressed back against his fingers, he finds himself twirling it slowly, considering. Waiting, he realizes, for her to elaborate. The Inquisitor's smile widens slightly and her eyes brighten up proportionately. 

“Cole explained... him, once, after Haven, remember?” She says, and the Tal-Vashoth is forced to dig into Hissrad's carcass to locate the right memory, something he'd been avoiding for the sake of avoiding temptation to just... take what was left of Hissrad and claim it as his own. Down that path is madness and becoming something even worse than the abomination he already is: an abomination that _doesn't_ want to die. “He liked to defend, to protect, not to kill. He liked to leave himself open to let others make a choice. Hissrad... The Iron Bull,” the Inquisitor says, staring intently at him, trying to find something the Tal-Vashoth is almost scared to contemplate. “He died to save his Chargers, but I also think he died so _you_ could live. So I'm going to try and save you, even if you hate me for it. Because he was my friend, and I think you could be, too.” She offers a small, brittle laugh to punctuate her statement. “Besides, keeping you alive is the best reason for living I have right now, because, as I said, I know _exactly_ how you feel.” 

“How do you know you won't regret it?” He asks, voice low and throat parched. 

She presses the bottle back to his fingers and he finds the motion to take a swing is almost automatic. 

“I don't, really, but that's the thing,” she gives him the same awkward smile she offered before asking if he... if Hissrad would like to hunt down a dragon. “In my experience, I've regretted not doing something a lot more often than the opposite. And,” she adds, grinning through her eyes are hard, “if I let you live and then regret it, I just have to kill you. Which might be hard, admittedly, but definitely easier than if I kill you and then regret it.” 

The Tal-Vashoth finds himself smiling thinly, remembering Dorian's words on the matter of raising the dead and the specific reason why he doesn't do that. 

“Yeah,” he says, terrified and yet oddly comforted. 

“It's going to be alright,” Adaar promises, taking the bottle from his hand with a small shrug. “It's just going to feel like shit in the meantime.” 

  


* * *

  


Herah Adaar is not having a nice day, when they finally cross the bridge into Skyhold proper. 

To be perfectly fair, she hasn't had what could be decently called _a good day_ since before the Conclave. Corypheus, the Breach and the magical nexus of bad luck currently stuck on her palm are mostly responsible for that. Sure, she's made friends since then, dear friends in even the most unexpected places... and she's gotten to kill a dragon – the dragon was _nice_ , admittedly – but having her life as Shokrakar and her life as the Inquisitor collide unexpectedly are not doing her or her patience any favors. 

“Inquisitor!” Cullen calls for her, when he sees her, rushing to meet the caravan – they are now a _caravan_ , with the Kiths from Ferelden, the Free Marches, Antiva and Rivain having joined them along the way – and looking haggard. “More Tal-Vashoth have arrived.” 

Herah likes Cullen, she really does. He's responsible and committed to the cause, and for all everyone picks on him for being too serious to have fun with or too honest to handle the subtleties of politics, he is at the core a good soldier. Herah has always liked good soldiers, they've always made her life easier. So it is because she likes Cullen that she doesn't just give into the urge to go hide in her tower and get blind drunk for the occasion. More so because he's looking at her like he doesn't know what the blistering hell he's supposed to do with so many Tal-Vashoth. 

“Yes,” Herah sighs, “I imagine they have.” 

They don't get it. Of course they don't, they're humans. They have their nations and their politics and their gods, and when it comes down to it, they're perfectly happy killing each other over them, because they _can_. But Qunari cannot kill each other without feeling they are killing part of themselves as well. And Tal-Vashoth are not so different, for all they like to pretend they are. The Valo-Kas though... the Valo-Kas is a nation, by its own right, built on the back of survivors of the Qun, but Herah knows it is not time for it to show itself as such. Not when the Qunari are most definitely planning to retaliate for the failed alliance and Corypheus is still in the middle of his mad little schemes to do... whatever the hell it is he wants to do, in the name of resurrecting the Tevinter of old. The Valo-Kas' survival has always been predicated on their ability to live on the shadows, unseen, but that is going to change and there's nothing Herah can do to stop it. 

It's not, however, her decision to make. She supposes she's gotten used to having that power, because the knowledge galls her a little. 

“What Kiths have arrived?” She asks, sliding down her mount and letting someone take the reins. Cullen stares at her, a little lost. “How many Shokrakars are here?” She asks instead, forcing patience she most definitely does not feel into her voice. 

“Three,” Cullen replies, clearly thankful to be talking with someone who understands this mess. 

Herah decides to be kind and not to disabuse him of the notion. 

“I have five with me,” she says, nodding as if this is what she expected and not the great mess she most certainly doesn't want to deal with. “Tell them to settle down across the river from the main camp. And make sure to tell our soldiers to not carry weapons with them, if they decide to cross the river.” 

Part of the reason Herah likes Cullen so much, she decides, is because he knows when to ask and when to obey: he nods at her, though the look he gives her clearly states that she'll be getting questions later, in private. She watches him go and takes another moment to force the ball of profanity in her throat into a sigh. 

“This is going to be a monumental mess,” she says, turning around to face her Inner Circle and the quiet, measuring looks they're giving her. She notices Bull is not there, but given everything he's gone through, she wasn't expecting him to. Dorian being absent already is... not a surprise, entirely, but also not something she's quite sure she's entitled to comment on. “So if you'd rather not be here when it happens, let me know. I'm sure I can find something that needs doing outside of Skyhold for you.” She offers a small smile. “But, much like with the dragon, I would sincerely appreciate the company.” 

“I will be where you tell me you need me to be,” Cassandra says, her wry smile softening her tone somewhat. “As always.” 

“And as always, the shit that happens to you needs to be seen to be believed,” Varric adds with a short laugh, echoed awkwardly around the group. 

Herah nods at them and looks over the rest: Blackwall shrugs expansively, Vivienne frowns mightily, Solas looks back shrewdly and Sera grins cheekily. 

“Woof,” she says, teasingly, and were Herah not in the middle of a very controlled downward spiral of panic, she might have blushed in reply. 

“On the upside,” Herah jokes, but means it seriously, “once we survive this, dealing with Corypheus should be a piece of cake.” 

They offer a few more encouraging words before going their way, and Herah feels the pull of the tower, once more, but she pushes it aside because there's still Bull, Dorian and the Chargers to look after. She feels a hole in the pit of her gut, when she thinks of them. After Haven and the horrors they saw in the Emerald Graves, Herah would have expected to be incapable of any more guilt, but isn't she always so full of surprises? 

With yet another sigh, she starts walking to the tavern and promises herself to drink into unconsciousness when it's all said and done. 

  


* * *

  


“How's he holding up?” Herah asks quietly, sitting in a corner away from Bull's usual haunt, surrounded by the Chargers and their twitchy, concerned looks. 

“Poorly,” Krem sighs into his mug. “The Magister's... Dorian, that is, he's been keeping him company, so there's that. But he's been deadly quiet since.” 

“Doesn't talk unless talked to,” Rocky mutters angrily, though Herah is not sure what or who exactly he's angry at. Everything, possibly. “And sometimes not even that.” 

They're looking at her, expecting her to explain it, Herah realizes. It should be easy, since she knows the words, for once, but it feels empty and hardly enough. She's never had this conversation with anyone before, for all she prepared and learned the steps; she was always that much better dealing with outsiders than handling the more delicate sides of being Valo-Kas. Bull is... _was_ Ben-Hassrath, too. The only Qunari that take exile worse than Ben-Hassrath are Saarebas, and only because they're a lot swifter in deciding when its time to end their lives. 

She sighs. 

“It's... hard,” she tries, carefully keeping her eyes down along with her voice. “For a Qunari like Bull, to spend your life giving and giving, because that's what they tell you the Qun demands, every bit and piece of yourself they need. And then one day they decide you just haven't given enough, you weren't enough, and they cut you off. Throw you out and tell you it's your fault they couldn't find a use for you.” Herah swallows back a snarl and turns it forcefully into a wry smile instead. “Bull is lucky, though. Whatever else he's lost, he's got you. That's more than a lot of people can say.” 

“He doesn't feel lucky,” Dalish mutters, biting the inside of her lip, “he doesn't... he doesn't look like he feels anything at all.” 

“We never meant to cost him this,” Skinner hisses, and ignores the way Dalish grabs her arm, “he should at least know that. We would have died and it would have been fine.” 

Herah watches them, really watches them: the tired, worn eyes and the shame burning scorching wastelands in its path. She realizes that, despite what she might feel like, she doesn't actually have a monopoly on guilt. 

“No,” she says, hard and sharp, eyes narrowed defiantly when they stare up at her in surprise. “You would have died, and he would be alone, having given up everything for the Qun. And then the Qun would have come back, later, and asked for something else. Something more. That's what the Qun does, it _demands_ of you, all you are and can and have, until you've died for it, or if you're lucky enough, you've found something you're not willing to give up. Then you're Tal-Vashoth, and it doesn't feel like luck until after you've survived it.” 

“ _Will_ he survive it?” Krem asks, quiet, and he ignores the betrayed looks he's given for daring to question it outright. “This is... this isn't an ambush or a fight. If it were, I'd be sure he'd survive it. That's just what he does. But this...” 

“He'll have help,” Herah promises, even though she's keenly aware she does not command the Valo-Kas like she does the Inquisition. But for Bull and his Chargers, she would _ask_. “And he'll have you. And it will hurt like a bitch, possibly on fire, but it will be alright.” 

  


* * *

  


“You never told me there was going to be so much bloody math involved,” Herah whines, voice soft and tone low, squinting at a scroll full of Dorian's infuriatingly neat handwriting. 

“Magic... real magic,” Dorian replies, smug and self-assured and most definitely not worn around the edges, “is pretty much purely math, when you get down to it. You should have guessed.” 

“You jumped off a cliff,” Herah retorts, well aware the petty argument over something insignificant is exactly what they both need, for the sake of ignoring everything else they should clearly talk about. 

Like Bull, for example. 

“You wanted to learn,” Dorian insists, eyebrows arched and expression mocking. “I assumed that meant you were certain you had the capacity to learn.” 

The thing is, Herah realizes, she could really use a petty argument right now. Given the way Dorian is looking at her, so could he. She casts an eye around the library and finds it mostly deserted, with only Helisma tucked away in a corner, jolting down notes at a steady pace. 

Herah promises solemnly to buy Dorian a drink, when things have settled down somewhat. 

“In my experience,” she says, tone just bratty enough to make her point, “poor teachers always blame their students for their own lack of skill.” 

“Remiss of me, Lady Inquisitor,” Dorian replies, eyes narrowed but still bright and taunting, “I keep forgetting you don't do things the easy way.” 

_Neither do you_ , Herah doesn't say, because she likes Dorian too much to point out the truths he's dead set on ignoring. 

Instead, she focuses on math. It's the lesser of two evils, for once. 

  


* * *

  


Dorian storms the Tal-Vashoth's quarters with the same entitled ease he did Hissrad's. It's both disconcerting and oddly welcome. 

“We,” he announces, hands on his hips and expression a delicate mixture between tempestous and determined, “are visiting Haven today.” 

“Why?” The Tal-Vashoth asks, more for the sake of Dorian's performance – it's always a performance, with Dorian, after all – than any real interest. 

“Because I'm frankly tired of waiting for you to be sensible and choose a reasonable outlet for... whatever this is,” Dorian says, eyebrows arched. “Mostly because hitting things helped before, and I'm not entirely sure why we didn't start from there in the first place.” 

The Tal-Vashoth doesn't have a reasonable reply to that, so he offers none. 

  


* * *

  


“If you don't want them here, you should just _tell_ them that. You're allowed to, I'd reckon.” 

Herah doesn't startle. She used to, before. But that was before the Emerald Graves and the horrors they had found there... and the strange, unspoken agreement that she'd settled in with Sera. Sera who vaults over the balcony into the room without a second thought, and saunters over to sprawl on Herah's bed like a spoiled tavern cat. 

“The thing is,” she sighs, leaning back against her chair to offer a lopsided smile, “I can't.” Herah purses her lips, thinking hard for a moment before sighing again and letting the absurd thought flow. Sera understands absurd best, anyway. “I want them here, that's kinda why I don't want them here at all.” 

“Sounds daft,” Sera replies, right on cue, “but then you're daft most of the time and it still works out, yeah?” She giggles. “I mean, I'm all up for more of _you_ around.” 

“If you want an orgy with my sisters,” Herah replies, dry and rude and unpolished like she's not allowed to be, when she's pretending to be the Inquisition personified, “all you have to do is ask. And provide the booze.” 

“Woof,” Sera breathes out teasingly, before she breaks down cackling. 

It would be mortifying, really, if Herah didn't find it all too endearing. 

“Most of them aren't mages, either,” she adds, entirely more snidely than first intended, and Sera notices, she knows, because the cackling shifts tones. 

It doesn't stop, though, doesn't acknowledge anything else. Herah reminds herself, yet again, that if she were smart or sensible or any of the things people keep insisting she is, she'd throw Sera out her quarters and stop pinning all at once. Instead she slumps forward in her desk, face buried in her hands. 

“Shokrakar isn't a mage, either,” she conceeds after a moment. “Doesn't need to be, to be terrifying.” 

“Could still kick her out though, tell her to fuck right off,” Sera says, surprisingly comforting, despite the abrupt lack of laughter in her voice. “You won't, but you _could_. Remember that, okay?” She snorts. “'s how I deal with Vivienne when she's being _Orlesian_. Could shoot her, but won't. But _could_. And sometimes that's enough.” 

Herah waits. Considers. _Sighs_. 

“You're being sensible again,” she says, standing up and giving up on the report she'd meant to read, turning instead to study Sera lying upside down her bed. “If you're not careful, it might become a habit.” 

“Habits are good, sometimes,” Sera replies, lips teasing the idea of a smirk, “when they're not _tourist-y_.” 

Herah laughs because, really, what else can she do at this point? 

  


* * *

  


“What if I don't stop?” The Tal-Vashoth asks, staring at the field of snow. “What if I can't?” 

He turns to look at Dorian, but Dorian gives him the same determined look that feels like a lie he'd like to believe. Dorian was Hissrad's friend, not his. Dorian is doing this for Hissrad, and the Tal-Vashoth feels like a monster for letting him go through with it, even though Hissrad is dead. He hasn't told Dorian that, yet. 

“I suppose if it comes to that,” Dorian says, offering a brittle smile, “I will have to do the noble thing and put you down myself. But I sincerely doubt it'll come to that.” 

The Tal-Vashoth feels his grip on the ax slide slightly. 

“Why?” 

Dorian's eyes flare purple as the snow shakes and the corpses begin to crawl up under his command. 

“Because I am not a noble man,” he says, “and you are.” 

  


* * *

  


Dorian takes a grim sort of satisfaction in watching him fall to his knees, exhausted. It's no small thing, to tire out the Iron Bull, and usually Dorian allows himself to feel smug about the achievement. This is decidedly less fun than usual, however, and his own, not insubstantial magic reserves feel nearly depleted, as he slowly and carefully dispells the clusters of wisps keeping his puppets upright. The Tal-Vashoth is breathing nearly as hard as he is, by the time he's done and he can no longer taste the Fade under his tongue. No Envy demons to round up the show, after all. Dorian feels it's the least he can do, considering how he feels about demons in general. 

The Tal-Vashoth, still panting harshly and kneeling in the snow, is staring unseeing at his hands. 

“I know you're not dead yet,” Dorian says archly, rolling his eyes for emphasis as he advances on the still kneeling Tal-Vashoth that seems to be contemplating the best way to melt into the mountain itself. “I believe people back in Skyhold can hear you breathing, right now.” Without much thought, he reaches a hand to rest it on a wide, muscled shoulder. “Honestly, Bull-” 

There's a split second, before the ax is swinging and Dorian knows instantly he's too slow to dodge it. He closes his eyes and braces himself, feeling the impact against the grip of his staff before he's thrown back a few yards into the packed snow. 

It's a lot less soft than he'd have imagined, considering how easily his feet tend to sink into it when he's trying to walk over it. 

Dorian manages three shaken breaths, before the other looms over him, eye wide and expression terrified. The bark of laughter that escapes Dorian's throat is every bit as shaken as his stuttering breathing, but entirely sincere. 

“I see it now,” Dorian says, slowly and carefully pulling himself upright, as large hands hover and twitch above him, “where the bovine monicker comes from. Ow.” 

The Tal-Vashoth stares at him, still. 

“I-” 

He flinches when Dorian reaches out to hold his face in his hands. 

“Barrier,” he explains, sounding vaguely smug despite it all. “So no harm done, beyond most of my dignity. I am sorry I startled you.” 

Something cracks, inside his head, hair-thin at first, but quickly spreading. He's afraid it will be screaming, angry madness beneath, but he's exhausted most of it against Dorian's corpse puppets. Instead, he is surprised by the depth of grief threatening to swallow him whole. 

Hissrad did not die the noble, heroic death he's spent days telling himself he did. Hissrad died screaming in frustration, swearing in betrayal, roaring for revenge. Hissrad gave Seheron to the Qun and the Qun still found a way to ask for _more_. He's too tired to be properly angry, which he supposes it's a good thing, because that level of rage borders on madness. But now all that's left is the grief that has nowhere else to go. 

Hissrad had felt that grief, once, years ago, when he woke up one day and found the horrors of Seheron couldn't pierce through the yawning numbness in his awareness. Hissrad had done what any good Qunari should have, in his place: he'd found his commander and requested surrender to the reeducators. Because even then, in the midst of smoke and blood, Hissrad had wanted to be the best he could be, for the sake of the Qun. Even then, Hissrad had thought he knew what the difference was, between being Qunari and being Tal-Vashoth, and he'd thought his place within the Qun was secure so long as he tended to it. 

The Tal-Vashoth wonders what would have happened, if Hissrad had known what he does now. If rather than going back to the bitter drugs and the droning words, he'd thrown down his ax and ran away. 

What if he became Tal-Vashoth by choice, rather than being forced into it. 

What if he hadn't _died_ , per se, what if... 

He expects Dorian to flinch away, when he buries his face into his neck and curls around him into a hug, barely biting back a howl of sheer despair behind his teeth. 

Dorian wraps his arms around his neck, solid and almost warm, and chuckles against his ear. 

“Would it be terribly insensitive of me to ask that we move this... obviously important thing we're doing, somewhere else?” He asks, voice airy and tone flippant, but his arms remain firmly where they are. “Your room, perhaps? Hell, at this point, my room, if you’re so inclined. Any room with a functional fireplace would do, really. Anything that isn’t crusted snow soaking through my clothes as we speak and _oh sweet Maker_ , why _the fuck_ is it so cold right now?” 

The Tal-Vashoth laughs. 

The Qun teaches that Tal-Vashoth do not laugh, do not feel emotion of any kind, for they have abandoned the Qun and lost their souls in the process. Emotion is the language of the soul, so what emotions could the soulless have? 

The Tal-Vashoth _laughs_. 

It's short and bitter and surprised. 

And deep inside his head, he begins to _question_. 

  


* * *

  


“She's going to murder me,” Herah mutters sullenly, pressing her palms into her face. 

She gets a smack on her side for her troubles, from the tiny – by comparison – woman carefully drawing rows upon rows of red rhombus on her back, who then growls at her to sit still. Herah hasn't worn vitaar – proper vitaar, the kind that's intricate and meaningful, rather than just functional – in what feels like forever. She'd been annoyed, initially, when she'd reached out to Bull to try and find some common ground about it, and he'd shot her down with not so subtle Qunari snottiness. The memory makes her sad, now, just for a second. 

“She's not going to _murder_ you,” Asaara, newly appointed Shokrakar of Orlais, replies, patting her knee and passing Herah's empty goblet to be refilled. “I mean, _probably_.” 

“I let my entire kith get blown up!” Herah snarls, glaring between her fingers. “To bits and pieces! All of it! Literal smithereens!” 

“Not on purpose, though,” Katari, Shokrakar of Antiva, adds with a little smile, as she mixes a bright cobalt blue batch of paint. She falters for a moment, frowning. “...because it _wasn't_ on purpose, right?” 

“ _Of course_ it wasn't on purpose,” Herah hisses back, teeth bared, but all she gets is an apple shoved into her mouth and another sharp smack on her side. 

“Then you'll be fine,” says Meraad, until recently Shokrakar of Orlais, before being unceremoniously conscripted into the Inquisition by the former Shokrakar of the Free Marches, now the so-called Inquisitor and Herald of Andraste. She takes a bite of her own apple and dodges the incoming kick with ease. “Honestly, she might yell a little.” 

Herah makes a strangled noise in the back of ther throat. 

“Objectively speaking,” comes the quiet rumble from the large woman sprawled comfortably on Herah's favorite rug, a present from King Alistir in commemoration of the dragon slaying, “you _will_ get more than a little yelling.” 

“I have missed you, Rasaan,” Herah sighs, hanging her head as her shoulders slump before offering a wry smile for the placid-looking Shokrakar of Ferelden. “Truly, I have. No one is objective here. Ever. But I could also stand to not have your objectivity pointed straight at my face right now.” 

“You're blood of her Kadan,” Rasaan replies, grinning. “She expects more of you.” 

Herah trows the half-eaten apple away and feels weirdly vindicated for it. Even if it makes Katoh, the increasingly annoyed Shokrakar of Rivain trying to paint the right pattern on her back, throw her hands up in frustration. 

“Can everybody _please_ not expect anything from me for five fucking minutes?” 

The door bursts open. 

“Inquisitor!” Cullen says, still staring at the papers in his hands as he climbs up the stairs, “I was wondering if—oh Maker's _breath_ ,” he splutters, voice going high pitched as he takes in the scene, before immediately ducking behind the small wall separating the stairs from the Inquisitor's chambers, proper. 

There's no outrage, for all he vaguely expected some. He's... read books, alright. Books the like Varric sometimes writes. ...mostly at Cassandra's insistence, granted. 

In those particular books, sometimes, well, something like this would happen, and then the poor hapless fool who walked through the door was visited a world of pain. One would expect that walking in not on one or two but nearly ten women in most states of undress, the violence would be proportional. Particularly considering the women are Qunari. 

Then again, maybe because they are Qunari, the reaction is loud, hooting laughter instead. 

Cullen sits, awkward, on the stairs, staring straight ahead, and wonders if he should run or not, as the laughter trails off into hissed half-words. 

A head leans over the wall, looking down at him with a placid smirk. A head followed by shoulders and the swell of breasts covered only in tiny, interlocking squares of green and silver paint that glimmers almost maliciously. 

“Oh, good,” Asaara says says, “you didn't actually fall down and break your neck.” 

Cullen splutters the most eloquent reply he can muster under the circumstances. 

“Was it actually urgent, Commander?” Herah asks, wondering if he's ever going to recover... not so much from what he's witnessed, but from the unrelenting teasing he's all but made himself target for. 

“I...” Cullen coughs, still staring straight ahead. “Probably not.” And then, terribly quiet: “I'm sorry.” 

Herah kicks Meraad before she can let loose another loud cackle. 

The Inquisition needs its Commander, after all. And maybe one day Cullen will still be able to look at her in the eye, despite his ridiculous human hangups. 

“It's alright,” she says, allowing herself the long-suffering expression, since he can't see it anyway. “You just gave me a great advantage in our next chess game, at least.” 

Cullen splutters indignantly once more, before allowing himself a reluctant chuckle. 

“I should probably leave you be,” He mutters, gathering his papers and carefully keeping his eyes down, still hidding behind the wall. 

“We could give you a paint job if you want to stay,” Katoh croons with a snicker, “bet you look real pretty in red~” 

  


* * *

  


Dorian grabs the Tal-Vashoth's arm and digs his thin, pointy fingers in, like claws. The Tal-Vashoth appreciates it, as he lets out a shuddering breath and changes his stance so he was no longer a split second away from leaping off the landing into the courtyard below. 

The courtyard below filled with fifty something burly, looming Tal-Vashoth that don't look nearly as placid as the ones that came before them. 

“Adaar!” One of the largest women hollers, an ax as wide as Dorian is tall propped up her shoulder like it weighs nothing. “Get your scrawny ass down here and say hello, I taught you better fucking manners than this!” 

There is a tense, awkward silence that spreads thickly all around; the Tal-Vashoth look at ease, tired from the long road but not too tired anyone could think it’d be an easy fight to win. And the Inquisition forces stand frozen in place, waiting to take their cue from the Inquisitor. Dorian wonders if this is going to be the thing that makes Josephine snap and start strangling people with her bare hands. He hopes not, he loathes losing bets to Varric: he’s simply unbearable about it. 

He's distracted by the sharp gasp at his side, as the tall woman removes the cloak off her shoulders to reveal every visible inch of skin covered in tattoos of black, swirling lines that Dorian's eyes realize a moment later might actually be a script of some kind. Her clothing is suprisingly Qunari-like, for the leader of the Valo-Kas, all ropes and folds of fabric that look like they shouldn't hold their shape and somehow still do anyway. 

The Tal-Vashoth stares and stares, but the mirage does not go away, and the questions already bubbling in the back of his head grow loud into white noise as he sways slightly in place. 

“Is _that_ what you did?” Herah asks, eyebrows arched and expression amused as she walks calmly down the stairs from the main hall. She looks a lot less... Inquisitor-y than usual, wearing a tunic that leaves her arms and her back bare, displaying the complex designs painted on her skin. She does not look meek, when she walks down to meet the newcomers, for all Dorian half-expected her to be. She looks like she's come to meet an equal, somehow. “Funny, considering you don’t know anything about manners.” 

Dorian stares as he realizes that Herah is two and a half heads shorter than the other woman. He’s not used to seeing her on the other side of the size scale and it makes sweat slide down the back of his neck. Hands reach out for weapons when the taller Qunari reaches out to hold the Inquisitor’s face between her hands. Herah looks entirely at ease with it, though Dorian notices the glint of an arrowhead somewhere in the corner of his eye and he’s more than certain this is the one time Sera won’t miss her target. 

The woman whispers something, something quiet no one can’t hear. 

Herah replies, just as quietly. 

Dorian’s hand is somehow no longer holding onto the Tal-Vashoth's arm, but rather clutching desperately and tightly at his fingers. 

Then Adaar reaches out and headbutts the other, almost affectionately, and moment passes. People relax. Well, for some values of relaxing. 

“So who do I have to talk to, to get paid for all the fucking demons we’ve been killing?” The woman asks, in a booming, laughing tone that makes the hairs on the back of Dorian’s neck stand on end. “You still have more of those that need killing, right? Because we didn’t trek across the fucking known world for anything less than demons, Adaar.” 

Herah laughs, and Dorian is so very glad he doesn’t have Cullen’s job. So very, very glad. 

“C’mon,” Dorian says, tugging on the Tal-Vashoth's hand. “You need a drink and I need to buy it for you.” 

  


* * *

  


“You need an army,” Shokrakar says, studying the half-completed mosaic that Gatsi is trying to put together from bits and pieces scavanged from the Hinterlands. She says this as a statement of fact, not a question, but it's no less threatening because of it. “You want to cross Orlais into the Western Approach, but Orlais is at war and you just don't have the numbers to free and secure the route.” 

Herah does not ask her how she knows all this, nor does she bother to confirm it. Shokrakar has eyes and ears in many places, as many places as there are Tal-Vashoth in Thedas. In the end, all rumors reach her, one way or another. 

“We have a foothold in the Emerald Graves,” Herah says instead, offering a slight shrug. “In time, that could be enough.” 

“Which is the one damn thing you don't have,” Shokrakar snorts, jaw tightening and making the glyphs along her throat twitch. “That's always how it works. Not enough time, not enough coin, not enough bodies to send to slaughter. War is never good for the _soul_ ,” she points out, offering a small sardonic smirk that makes Herah relax just a little and smile back at the pun, “I'm surprised you've embraced it anyway.” 

“...embrace is such a polite way of putting it,” Herah admits after a moment, keenly aware that her posture must remain as neutral as possible, as there are many eyes in the hall, all of them very interested in the conversation. 

“Your station deserves politeness,” Shokrakar conceeds, though her smile is sly like Herah's best only wish they could be. “After all, you're the reason the Inquisition survived Haven, aren't you? That was a job halfway well done.” 

“Halfway,” Herah says, before she can stop herself. 

Shokrakar snorts. 

“You didn't kill the asshole monstrosity out for your blood,” she points out, eyebrows arched, “and he dropped a mountain on your head.” 

“Technically, _I_ dropped a mountain on my head,” Herah shrugs a little defensively. “It was just one of those days.” 

“The point is,” Shokrakar insists, “you didn't finish the job. Which brings us to the matter at hand. You need an army, to march across Orlais.” 

“The Valo-Kas is not an army,” Herah says cautiously, trying to gauge Shokrakar's intentions. It's a lot harder than she wants to admit. “Even if you put all kiths together.” 

“No, they're mercenaries,” Shokrakar snorts. “But you have career soldiers doing mercenary work, because your resources are stretched so thin. I won't let you send my people to the front lines, but I'm offering to let you send them to do the work that's keeping half the army you _do_ have, from the front lines.” 

Herah freezes, taking a moment to imagine the Inquisition if Crestwood, the Storm Coast and the Hinterlands would stop demanding attention – and more men – every five minutes. It would be a small, but powerful change, she realizes. She knows Cullen himself would be delighted about the prospect, too. 

“That's a very generous offer, Tal-Shokrakar,” Herah says, voice formal and posture perfectly upright, trying her hardest to embody everything the Inquisition is meant to be, “but you did not need to come here to deliver it personally.” 

“I never _have_ to do anything, Inquisitor,” Shokrakar replies, smiling as she accepts the game. “I rejected the law of the Qun. I only do what I think best, not what someone else thinks I must.” The statement is said clearly and in the same taunting voice as everything before it, but Herah is keenly aware it's not meant for her. She knew that already, for starters. “Besides, the Wilds have become boring as of late. I appreciate the change of scenery.” Her eyes flash as she stands up at her full height, towering over the Inquisitor. “If you'll have us.” 

Herah is aware of the many eyes watching them, judging. This meeting is solely for the sake of politics, and the tiny bit of her soul she's designated specifically to hate politics is pulsing somewhere in her chest. She offers her best serene smile and extends her hand, careful to keep her head high. 

“The Inquisition would be honored to have the Valo-Kas supporting it,” she says, and admits to herself the sentiment is true enough. 

Shokrakar clasps her forearm, not her hand, in a pointed gesture to remind whoever's watching that they're not human, for all they know how to play their games. 

“Then the Valo-Kas will be honored to be of use, Inquisitor.” 

  


* * *

  


“Do I want to know why our dear Commander can't seem to look at you in the eye?” Dorian asks, leaning on the balcony railing to give the majestic mountain range around Skyhold a very unimpressed look. 

“It's sadly nowhere near as entertaining as you'd think,” Herah snorts, leaning back on her chair with a sigh. “He walked in on a vitaar session.” 

“That sounds rather scandalous nonetheless,” Dorian replies, walking back inside with a small smirk, “has Mother Giselle been informed of it?” 

“No... and hopefully she won't just yet,” Herah adds with a small wince. “One disaster at the time, please. I'm not good at multitasking.” 

“I'd like to contest that, but then, I've been training you.” Dorian allows himself a slightly meanspirited smirk. When Herah merely glares half-heartedly at the quip, his expression sobers. “I suspect you didn't call for me just for another round of delicious gossip exchange, however.” 

“Aww, you think my gossip is delicious,” Herah teases, chuckling when he makes a point to face her so she can see him roll his eyes. “But you're right.” 

“I usually am, yes,” Dorian points out, sighing dramatically as he moves to lean on her desk, not quite sitting on the edge. “It's a terrible curse, sometimes.” 

“Only sometimes,” Herah snorts, shaking her head. “We might have found the Seekers of Truth.” 

“ _Might_.” 

“It's a lead,” Herah goes on, valiantly refusing to flinch at the deadpan. “Which is admittedly more than what we had before.” She shakes her head slowly. “I know as soon as I tell Cassandra about it she's going to want to go and look into it. And I know we should in all honesty go look into it, because Red Templars are bad enough. I've been trying really hard not to think what Red _Seekers_ could be like, particularly after what you and Bull found at Therinfal Redoubt.” 

“I feel you're building up to ask me something,” Dorian says, eyebrows arched, “because you're a silly girl who still hasn't figured out I'll do whatever you ask of me, and quite a bit that you won't, too. It's probably my fault, really, confessions always make me ill so I avoid them as often as I can.” 

Herah looks at him, really looks at him, and decides to smile wryly rather than voice her thoughts. He smiles back, and she knows she's made the right choice. 

“I'm worried about Bull,” she admits, carefully looking away to let Dorian's forced indifference to go uncontested. “I like him well enough, but he never liked me enough to let me get to know him. Not as well as you do.” 

“I hardly think-” 

“He needs help,” Herah says, rather than acknowledge the rebuttal that she'd known would come. She feels she's got a good enough grasp of Dorian, now, to understand he'll joke and freely admit to, in his own words, be fucked to satisfaction by musclebound Qunari, but he'll die rather than own up to any emotional attachment. Herah's ran into that wall before, and she's in no mood to test its resilience once more. “Shokrakar, the... uh, the actual Shokrakar, that is, can help him in the way he needs to be helped right now. ...I think. That's what she _does_... when she's not being terrifying, anyway. But I don't know if he'll survive it. I don't know if I have any right to put him in a situation that he might not survive.” 

Dorian frowns, pursing his lips together and debating with himself on the very precise choice of words to preserve the very delicate balance of thoughts and emotions in his head that Herah's clumsily trying to handle. It's not so much that he doesn't care about Bull – he does, they're friends, and Dorian has many flaws, he's willing to admit, but not caring about his friends has never been one of them – in so much as his unwillingness to put either of them in an uncomfortable situation. 

It's all just so strange, to Dorian, the whole Qunari business. Admittedly, he's never really known much about Qunari, mostly because he's never really had any reason to learn about them. He's certain he understands the gravity of the situation – everyone does, really, the absence of Bull's voice is as massive as his frame – but he doesn't understand _why_. He's never been particularly good at offering comfort, so he's tried instead to offer familiarity, with mixed results. Bull is still taciturn and withdrawn, but at least he's eating and drinking and getting through his days on more than sheer inertia. He needs help, clearly, and if the mysterious leader of the Valo-Kas can provide it, Dorian's gut instinct is to demand it. 

But then again, what right does he have to make any demands? This kind of question, he feels, should be aimed at Krem, who's known Bull the longest among them. Or at any of the Chargers, really, who would gladly give their lives for the sake of their boss. Dorian feels insignificant by comparison, like he's overstepping a line never actually defined before. 

And yet, he realizes, Krem's been consulting with him, on the matter. Skinner passes along hissed comments of what Bull's been doing, when he's not around. Dalish is ever punctual to her lessons and gossips freely about everything and nothing, but mostly Bull. Stitches always buys Dorian's first drink in the evenings, to help him swallow better the questions that come with it, all about Bull. Rocky mutters all the way up the stairs into the library, but he climbs them anyway, Grim at his heels, to snark at Dorian about how much the lower ranks are slacking off, without the boss... well, bossing them around with proper training and the like. 

Dorian realizes, all at once, that he's become Bull's keeper without meaning to, and the thought terrifies him to the bone. 

“If she can help, she should help,” he says, as composed as he can, while spiraling down into a panic. “If she's willing, that is.” 

“That's what I thought,” Herah sighs, a little unhappy, but probably unaware of Dorian's carefully controlled mental nosedive. “The thing is...” 

“I've told you already,” he says, a tad sharper than he'd intended, “if you want to ask me something, ask away. You don't have to meander about and hope I'll be too confused to realize the point.” 

“I want you to come with me, when we go find the Seekers,” Herah replies quickly, wincing. “But I understand if you don't want to, what with Bull-” 

“I'll be more than happy to make sure you don't get yourself stabbed by a red lyrium monstrosity,” Dorian interrupts, offering his best brilliant smile and ignoring the crust of ice gathering in his gut. “I've told you, I despise it when you go off to kill people without me.” Herah doesn't take the bait, as Dorian feared, so he presses on, clinging to that smile for all he's worth. “The Iron Bull has survived dragons, Inquisitor, he will survive my absence. Frankly, I think he'll be glad to be rid of me for a while. I might have been fussing like an overbearing hen.” 

Herah looks unconvinced. Dorian doesn't run away, he merely remembers he has notes he'd promised Fiona three weeks prior, and he should perhaps deliver them. 

Now. 

Herah reminds him yet again why he loves her so, when she doesn't make another comment when she rightly should. 

  


* * *

  


Despite his initial knee-jerk desire to run off with the Inquisitor and Cassandra and whoever else was tagging along in that little detour into disaster, without another word, Dorian finds himself sitting on the trunk in Bull's room and staring at the mountain of muscles and dejected not-Bull with a slight frown and an unhappy twitch to his mouth. 

“You should go see Shokrakar,” he hears himself saying, with a vaguely sagely tilt to his tone. 

“Why?” The Tal-Vashoth asks, and then chides himself for asking, as he's been trying dutifully to swallow back the questions. 

He has no right to question, but he does anyway, and it's terribly maddening but not the _right kind_ of maddening, and that in itself, will drive him insane sooner than later, he reckons. 

“Because you still need to hit something,” Dorian replies, lying through his teeth and refusing staunchly to feel bad about it, “and you might as well hit something that hits back.” 

  


* * *

  


The Inquisitor leaves for Caer Oswin so early in the morning it might as well still be night. 

She takes Cassandra with her, of course, but also Varric, Dorian and Blackwall, and she looks so determined no one is brave enough to point out what a terrible idea that might be. 

  


* * *

  


“You make my head ache,” Cole tells Shokrakar – the actual Shokrakar – sitting on the table in her tent and fiddling with a puzzle box she put in his hands the moment she took a good look at him. “You anchor many hurts, but your own reaches out to nothing. It's like a labyrinth where all the corridors end up joining into the same room.” 

“Is that so?” Shokrakar chuckles, amused. “I suppose you're right, in a way. That is what souls are meant to do, after all. Connect.” 

“I thought I'd try to help,” Cole admits, frowning as he slides the little markers on the top face of the box, trying to align the lines. “But your hurt doesn't really hurt, does it? It's old and solid, like the roots of a promise. Never again.” 

“Hurt only hurts, when you're not doing something about it,” she replies, offering an easy shrug as she moves to sit on the pile of cushions deeper in the tent. Human furniture just isn't made to handle someone her size, and she finds herself missing the Wilds already. “It stopped hurting a long time ago.” 

“They're afraid of you,” Cole points out, smiling as the pieces finally fit in place even though the box turns out to be empty when he opens it. “What you say or don't... have I disappointed her? I am not worthy. I don't deserve her attention. But you make them hurt less, and they hurt more than they fear.” 

Ordinarily, this would be the point where he disappeared and made himself be forgotten. But he finds himself curious. It's a foreign feeling, and he's not entirely sure he likes it. It's distracting. 

“One hurts, because you're not where you're supposed to be. One day they will find their place, and the hurt will stop.” She offers him a sly grin, eyes amused, and Cole is reminded of the way Varric looks at him when sharing one of his games of words that make no sense but are supposed to be funny because of it. “Fear is good, though. Fear reminds you you're alive, and of what's really important.” 

“She asked me if I could help him,” Cole tells her, face half hidden under the wide brim of his hat. “I told her I couldn't help him, because he can't hear me anymore. Can't even see me, even when I try my hardest.” 

“You can't help the dead, kid,” Shokrakar chides him, folding her arms behind her head, looking nonchallant. “And he's trying his damn hardest to be dead.” 

“Oh,” Cole says, considering, as he turns the empty box in his hands. “Can you help the dead?” 

“No,” she replies, “but he's not dead yet.” 

  


* * *

  


“I'm starting to think I should have sit this one out,” Varric tells no one in particular as he reloads Bianca and ignores Cassandra's increasingly annoyed snarls. 

Of course they got ambushed by bandits in the Hinterlands, he thinks a little crankily. Of course they did. 

“Are you sure?” Herah replies, taking a moment to catch her breath and steal a sip of lyrium to get her bearings back. “You might've had to finish a book otherwise.” 

Dorian chooses that precise moment to carpet bomb everything in a twenty yard radius, with literal fire raining from the sky, and the only reason no one they know dies is because of the barriers he's put up beforehand. 

“Shall we go on?” He asks, as the smoldering circle of death all around him smokes weakly. 

“You take the fun out of everything,” Blackwall snaps at him, grunting as he throws his shield over his back. 

Cassandra makes another angry snarling sound behind her teeth. 

“I don't know, Creampuff,” Varric says, deadpan, giving the Inquisitor a look best described as long-suffering, “I'm starting to think my Editor isn't all that scary.” 

Herah winces. 

“Didn't your editor murder somone over a comma once?” 

Varric grimaces what she thinks was meant to be a grin as he slides Bianca over his back. 

“Semicolon, actually,” he says, with a little shrug. “But she didn't do it _herself_. Or with _fire_. So I'm learning to recalibrate my worldview based on that.” 

Despite it all, Herah finds it in herself to grin at him. 

“It's a brave new world, huh?” 

  


* * *

  


“Maybe she wants to talk business,” Krem says, hands stuck to his pockets as he walks next to the Tal-Vashoth, following the tall, grinning woman that came to inform them that the leader of the Valo-Kas wanted a word with them. Well, with the leader of the Chargers, technically, but Krem refuses to feel guilty about tagging along. “They just got hired by the Inquisition, right? That's probably what she wants.” 

Krem is very keenly aware he's talking out of his ass, even though he's not exactly sure what about. The whole business with the chief, after he was declared Tal-Vashoth, he's not really sure how any of it works. But the chief has always looked after the Chargers and he's always made sure to keep his head on for business, so he figures trying to spin it into part of that could help. 

Krem absolutely does not miss the Magister, or the Magister's ridiculous ability to say the absolute worst possible thing and still make the chief laugh about it. 

Krem promises himself to take it out on the pompous git once he comes back, and refuses to acknowledge the quiet voice in the back of his head that points out that the Magister is under no obligation to stay and babysit the chief, just because he's apparently the best one suited for the job. 

The leader of the Valo-Kas is staying in a large tent in the center of their camp. All their tents are considerably larger than the ones Krem is used to, but that's probably because everyone in the camp makes the chief look... normal sized. Krem has never been the tallest guy around, but he feels significantly smaller than usual, ignoring the curious looks from Qunari everywhere. He'd told the Inquisitor that he didn't have any strong feelings about them, and he hadn't been lying, but then the only Qunari he'd ever really met before was the chief. There are a lot more horns all around, but Krem forces himself to keep calm and steady, when he realizes none of them seem particularly aggressive. The chief always talks about Tal-Vashoth like they're some kind of savage force of nature, with a thirst for violence that can't really be stopped, but once he gets past the horns and the... hugeness of it all, it looks a lot like the Chargers' camp, only... to scale. 

The Valo-Kas leading them, one of their Shokrakars – Krem understands that to be a title, more than a name, though they seem to use it like one anyway, and he wonders if it doesn't get confusing – walks leisurely up to the main tent, a sprawling thing the size of a barn. Inside there's a lot of scrolls, books and trinkets that looked like they were made by children. It looks a lot less like the chief's tent, in Krem's experience. There's a lot less booze lying around, for starters. 

The woman, whom Krem had seen when she'd arrived at Skyhold – because honestly, who _hadn't_ seen her when she arrived at Skyhold – is sitting crosslegged on a large, green cushion, writting notes in a scroll. She looks up at them when they enter, violet eyes sharp and narrowed, and scoffs when she sees him. 

“You lead the company while he's... unable, yes?” She asks, nodding at Krem and purposely not looking at the chief. Krem doesn't bristle, because he knows better. “I've spoken with the Commander, there are loose ends in the Hinterlands and the Storm Coast to deal with. Rasaan will brief you, if the Chargers are game to help.” 

Another of the Shokrakars, Rasaan, Krem assumes, appears by the entrance of the tent, bowing politely at the woman on the floor and offering a sedate smile. 

“Meanwhile you and the chief can catch a word, huh?” Krem replies, eyes narrowed. 

He's surprised when she laughs. 

“If he wants,” she says, shrugging. “I might have something to say, to him. For you? I've got nothing, kid.” 

Krem waits, considering. He realizes there are no weapons in the tent. At least none that he can see. That means that the leader of the Valo-Kas is not a fighter – even though he'd been seen carrying a massive ax before – or she was good enough to not need a weapon, to fight. Neither thought sits comfortable, in Krem's mind. 

“Go,” the Tal-Vashoth says, voice hoarse, not looking at him. “Krem. Go see what needs doing,” he adds, licking his lips. 

Krem wants to argue, but he doesn't. He does look back, even as he follows Rasaan outside, and catches a glimpse of the Tal-Vashoth coming to sit in front of the strange woman. 

He hopes against all hope that won't be the last time he ever sees him. 

  


* * *

  


The Tal-Vashoth sits in silence for a long, long moment, trying to put quiet in his mind. The thoughts continue to flutter everywhere, rebellious and dangerous. He's lived on too long, he fears, surely only madness is left for him. 

“Do you know who I am?” Shokrakar asks him, not looking at him. She goes back to her notes, writing careful lines of common on the scroll. “Or rather, do you know _what_ I am?” 

Her voice flows over the vowels with ease, and the Tal-Vashoth feels himself tense when it takes him a moment to realize she's switched to Qunalt mid-sentence. 

“You're Tal-Shokrakar, the leader of the Valo-Kas,” he replies, letting his hands fall on his thighs. “Tal-Vashoth.” 

“Hissrad was Ben-Hassrath,” Shokrakar says, still not looking at him. “Hissrad was a good Qunari, besides. Useful. Smart. Enough to be told things.” Her eyes are narrowed, when she looks at him, sharp like knives that feel like they can carve out every secret he's ever kept. “Do you _know_ who and what I am?” 

The Tal-Vashoth finds himself studying the tattoos on her skin, on her face and her neck, down her shoulders and all the way to the back of her hands and her fingers. Each character was carefully, delicately traced by a steady hand. A hand that knew the language well enough, and thus knew exactly what was being written on her skin. His mouth is dry, refusing to wrap around the answer that sits heavy and uncomfortable in the middle of Hissrad's memories. 

A story he was told when he surrendered to the reeducators, after Seheron. A story to comfort him and let him know how brave and good he was, for doing so. The story of someone who was brave and committed to the Qun, who made a vow and had it tattooed on her skin, to show her determination to see it through. Someone who failed but was not lesser for it, because she tried her best and was honored because of it. 

The Tal-Vashoth swallows hard. 

“Hissrad knew,” he says, hoping that's good enough. 

She's still looking at him. 

“And?” 

He closes his eyes, bracing. 

“You are the One Who Swore,” he says, the words bitter on his tongue, “the Ariqun who set out to recover the Tome of Koslun and never came back.” He's surprised by the sheer anger seeping into his words. “You abandoned the Qun, and the Arishok made you _qunoran vehl_.” 

“I abandoned the Qunari, not the Qun,” she corrects, voice hard but not exactly angry. “Because the Qunari abandoned me, first. Then the Arishok mocked me with that title, because he thought me dead. Thought he could wash away his sins, that way.” She laughs, and it sends shivers down his spine. “The Body decided the Soul was in the way, so he got rid of it. He made it so a witless child sat in my place, and made it so my mission became his. It didn't matter, I have a new mission. To save the Qunari from their own perversion of the Qun.” 

“So you became Tal-Vashoth?” He snaps, and is horrified by the well of anger that keeps the words coming despite the fact he shouldn't. “You built yourself a kingdom of Qunari that broke free of the Qun and broke themselves in return?” 

“It’s not _freedom_ that breaks them,” Shokrakar snarls, and the Tal-Vashoth shuts his mouth so quick he tastes blood and thinks he might be short a sliver of tongue. “ _Law_ broke them! Long before they are even born and already the path has been chosen for them. Freedom hurts, because the pressure’s relented and now they may know exactly what they have lost. I look after them, help them figure out who they are, look after their souls, after the Qunari did their best to shatter them.” 

“The Qun _is_ law,” he snaps back, despite the blood and the bit off tongue, and refuses to cower on principle. “The Qun is order. The Qun is balance. The Qun is _good_.” 

“The Qun is _broken_ ,” Shokrakar replies with a venomous hiss, and he flinches when her hand reaches out to tilt his head up so she can stare him down right in the eye. “The Qunari _broke_ the Qun. The Qun _was_ order. The Qun _was_ balance. The Qun _was_ good. Then the Qunari made it law and gave law more weight than truth.” Her claws dig in, when he tries to wrench his head away. “The Qun teaches only this fundamental truth, that there is a place for everything and that everyone has their place. The Qunari took the truth and twisted it, sharpened it, made it so: that you must fit the place you’re given, force yourself to make it yours. That you are Qunari only if you obey the law, that your soul will wither, without it.” She lets him go with a bitter, terrifying smile. “The law was made to serve the Qun, but now the Qun is hollow words in the service of the law.” 

The silence lingers a moment longer, before Shokrakar rolls to her feet with grace that belies her size. The Tal-Vashoth watches her pick up her scroll and her writing instruments, and place them carefully on the desk. 

“What happened to you is wrong,” she says, softer, almost kind. Part of him wants to hear it, desperately, and the rest of him rebels against it, because it's anathema to everything he's ever known and believed in. “What happened to you and every other Tal-Vashoth, it's the most monstrous fucking thing the Qunari have done. They gave you a place that didn't suit you, that threatened to destroy you, and when you failed to meet their demands, they said you weren't worthy. You survived their blunders and now they command you to die, so they don't have to look at their failure in the fate that befell you.” 

“Tal-Vashoth reject the Qun,” he replies, but it sounds oddly hollow, like someone else's words spoken in his voice. “Madness is all they can hope for.” 

“Yes,” Shokrakar says, and the surprise must have shown in his face, because she laughs. “But you didn't reject the Qun, did you? None of the Tal-Vashoth under my care did. They were rejected by the Qunari, claiming to speak for the Qun. But how can the Qun reject you, or anyone else? The Qunari believe that blasphemy and made it law, and then made Tal-Vashoth of anyone who begins to see their deceit.” 

“The Qun-” 

“Teaches only this fundamental truth, that there is a place for everything and everyone has their place,” she repeats, eyebrows arched. “Have you gone mad, yet? Have you murdered indiscriminately, friend and foe? Or have you kept the precepts of the Qun, instead? Waiting, as they told you, for someone to come and kill you like they said you should be killed?” 

“I'm Tal-Vashoth,” he insists, fingers clenched tightly on the fabric of his pants. “Hissrad knew what would happen, when he made his choice. He knew the consequences and found them acceptable. He died in vain, if I don't face them.” 

“ _He_ didn't fit the place they gave him,” Shokrakar says, shrugging. “That's not _his_ fault, because he didn't choose it. But you are right, Hissrad is dead. Now it falls on you to choose _who_ lives on.” She purses her lips, thoughtful. “ _If_ you live on.” 

He blinks when he finds a hand in front of his face, waiting. It takes him another moment to reach out and hold it. She helps him up with ease, and he's distracted by the way the tattoos shift as her muscles tense under her skin. 

“That is a choice no one can make for you,” she says, nudging him surprisingly gently towards the opening of the tent, “but before you make it, I suggest you figure out exactly who Hissrad was. After all, it's his death you must honor, with that choice.” 

  


* * *

  


The Tal-Vashoth leaves Skyhold a few days later, riding along a caravan of Valo-Kas heading to the Storm Coast. No one says anything of his presence there, though the Shokrakar leading them – a tiny, deadly looking thing with crooked teeth and missing her left horn entirely, that brings to mind the image of a viper of some sort – shoves a bag with supplies into his hands when he splits off the group in a crossroad, heading over to Crestwood instead. 

He's not, truth be told, entirely sure what he's doing, but then he's been feeling that way the entire time he's existed. He's gone from revering Hissrad, to feeling sorry for him, to being terribly fucking annoyed at him, for leaving him with the burden of his name and his history and all the loose ends that didn't miraculously die with him. He's thought long and hard about what Shokrakar told him, about who Hissrad really was. He's come to the conclusion that Hissrad was a really shitty Qunari all things told, but perhaps that itself wasn't a bad thing altogether. He's no closer to figuring out what to do with himself now, than he was before, but he's at least decided to sort it out in a way that Hissrad would have approved of. 

There is a dragon roosting somewhere in Crestwood. Hissrad saw her during the Inquisitor's trip to search for the Wardens that ended up with a ridiculously unlikely capture of a Keep now under control of Leliana's troops. They'd seen the dragon, but hadn't stuck around long enough to deal with it. The Tal-Vashoth has made a choice... of sorts. He's decided to either die in a way that Hissrad would find honorable and borderline entertaining, or survive and somehow figure out how to not commit the same fucking mistakes Hissrad did. 

Either way, he's going out there to hunt a dragon. 

It's perfectly reasonable so long as he doesn't think too hard about it, which is why he's told no one. Because then he'd have to explain and the whole thing would fall apart at the seems. 

He's busy poking at the fire and waiting for his stew to thicken a little, resolutely not thinking about anything in particular, when he hears steps approaching. 

He blinks. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” He asks, when Dorian walks into the clearing, Priscilla’s reigns in his hand and the dracolisk at his heels. 

“You know exactly what I’m doing,” Dorian retorts flippantly, as he ties his mount next to the Tal-Vashoth's own – which makes tiny nervous noises before Priscilla silences it with a loud, threatening hiss. 

“I really don’t,” he sighs, but slides to the side on the makeshift bench by the fire, tacitly offering Dorian a seat. 

Dorian takes the offer gracefully – and gratefully, the Tal-Vashoth thinks, considering how quickly he reaches out to the fire, trying to warm up his fingers. He offers him one of those arrogant little side-looks that usually prelude a smartass remark, but he looks strangely solemn, for once. 

“I am, _as always_ , looking out for the Inquisition’s best interests and trying to keep Skyhold’s servants from revolting.” 

The Tal-Vashoth peers down at him with a little squint. 

“Really?” 

Dorian snorts. 

“No, not really. But it sounds a lot more sensible, not to mention likely, than _I’m here to keep you from killing yourself stupidly in the most dramatic way you can muster._ ” When the Tal-Vashoth finds himself snorting back, despite his best intentions, Dorian sighs loudly. “Well, that or at least make sure you don’t die alone? I promised Krem, you see, Tevinter’s honor and all that. You can blame him, if we survive… whatever it is we’re fighting this time.” 

The Tal-Vashoth says nothing for a long moment, because he'd purposely ignored Hissrad's... _thing_ with Dorian, in his careful mental shuffle of his legacy. 

“Thanks, Dorian,” he says, eventually, and means it keenly. 

Dorian huddles further into his cloak. 

“ _Thank Krem_ ,” he insists, grunting, but the Tal-Vashoth thinks he spies the ghost of a small smile nestled in the corner of his mouth. 

If he lives, he decides, he's going to try and see if he can build _his own_ thing with Dorian, instead of taking over Hissrad's. More so when Dorian melts into his side the moment he drops an arm around his shoulders. 

  


* * *

  


“Crestwood,” Herah says, incredulous. 

Shokrakar shrugs, peering down her goblet distrustfully. 

“That's what Katoh said, yes.” 

Herah leans on the windowsill, staring down the mountainside as she sips her own wine without Shokrakar's reservations. 

“Why Crestwood?” She asks, more to herself than to the other. “There's really nothing left besides... oh.” Herah empties her goblet in one go. “ _Oh_.” 

Shokrakar arches both eyebrows, curious. 

“Yes?” 

Herah buries her face into hear hands, swallows back a scream and then looks at her companion with a very put upon expression on her face. 

“There's a high dragon in Crestwood.” 

Shokrakar bursts out laughing, loud cackles that are doing Herah's frayed nerves no favors. Herah resists the urge to tear at her hair. Barely. 

“I'm going to like this kid, aren't I?” Shokrakar says, grinning widely. She snorts. “Well, if he survives it.” 

  


* * *

  


“I was joking,” Dorian says, deadpan, when they reach the ruins of the farm and spy the dragon's lair further down the hill, “when I said you were trying to kill yourself dramatically.” 

The Tal-Vashoth offers a portentous shrug, allowing himself the curl of excitement sitting in his gut. 

“You don't have to,” he says, looking down at Dorian and the thunderous expression on his face. “It's okay.” 

“Tevinter's honor is at stake,” Dorian informs him, then shakes his head. “Besides, why should I let you hoard the fun?” 

  


* * *

  


The dragon, unlike the one they fought in the Hinterlands, breathes out lightning, rather than fire. 

Dorian goes on a loud, screaming rant about how physically _impossible_ that is, all the while keeping a thick, steady barrier around them both. 

The Tal-Vashoth laughs and finds he can no longer feel guilty about it. 

  


* * *

  


The fight drags on, throughout the morning and the afternoon. Dorian finds himself cycling from exhausted to drunk on adrenaline and fears he might just drop dead by the time they're done. Still, he's not through his supply of lyrium potions when they corner the dragon up against the ruins, one of its wings thoroughly broken. 

The sun is setting, when the Tal-Vashoth yells something in Qunlat, sinking the edge of his blade on the worn scales of its breast, shatting bone as blood gushes forth in a torrent and the dragon shrieks in pain before it falls over. 

Dorian lets himself fall on the ground once it stops moving, greateful for the fact he no longer needs to keep himself upright. 

“Who killed you?” The Tal-Vashoth demands of the dragon, as he pulls his ax back. His voice is full of vicious, feral joy, and Dorian resolutely ignores the pang of relief when he recognizes the tone perfectly. “That's right, you beautiful bastard.” He's surprised at the ease with which the words slide off is tongue: “ _Iron Fucking Bull!_ ” 

Dorian snorts, shaking his head. 

“I helped,” he says, though his mouth might be perpetually frozen into a smile, “at least a little, perhaps you noticed?” 

He lets out a noise of surprise when Bull reaches down to grab him and sits him on the crook of his elbow. Dorian grabs onto a horn to keep himself upright. 

“I did,” Bull says, eyes bright. “ _We killed a dragon_.” 

Dorian arches both eyebrows, and wonders vaguely if it's some kind of Qunari medicine, dragon slaying. 

“You're feeling better,” he says, surprised to realize he's not exactly opposed to being carried. More so when his legs and the rest of his body are aching bone-deep with magic exhaustion. “I take it.” 

“I'll feel like shit when the euphoria dies down,” Bull replies, matter-of-fact. “But I plan to be blind drunk when that happens.” 

Dorian laughs. 

“Ah, a man after my own heart.” 

  


* * *

  


Dorian wakes up in an unfamiliar bed, still dressed in his crumpled, dragon-death-stained clothes. He takes a moment to appreciate the truly wreched hangover pounding on his head, before he rolls over to find Bull sitting by the fireplace, staring at the flames. The gaudy decoration can only be Ferelden, in his experience, so he figures they're somewhere in Caer Bronach. 

The previous night was full of drinking – terrible Ferelden beer and Bull's laughter, both in equal great quantities – so he's not quite clear on the details of how he came to be there, but he's satisfied that all limbs seem to be still attached, at least. 

“I take it we've arrived at the feeling like shit part of the process?” Dorian asks, crawling over the bedding until he's sprawled as long as he is, chin resting on his folded arms, because he's too tired for upright just yet. 

“It's the weird thing,” Bull admits, tilting his head back to look at Dorian's face. “I don't... feel as bad as I thought I would.” 

Dorian makes a small, thoughtful noise in the back of his throat. He's committed to his decision of not questioning things, more so after Krem caught him, just as the Inquisitor's group returned from Caer Oswin with the somber news on the Seekers' fate. He didn't question why Krem decided to ask – demand, really, but that's how Krem and him have always understood each other – him to follow Bull down whatever mad idea he'd decided on this time. He could have just as well turned back, at any point, rather than go out of his way to spend a week hunting down a very stubborn Qunari brute that for some insane reason, Dorian has decided to be friends with. He didn't even really question the dragon, even though it would be the sensible thing to do. 

He knows an opening for questions when he sees one, and he knows damn well he should avoid it. 

He promises himself to blame the hangover, when he asks, instead: “Do you want to talk about it?” 

Bull offers an expansive shrug. 

“I think...” he says, thoughtful, “I think I need to figure it out first, myself, before I can talk about it.” 

Dorian shrugs back. 

“Or you could get drunk too,” he offers, grinning wryly, “that's always an option.” 

“Yes,” Bull says, equally wry, thinking of options and choices and many things he never really considered, before. “There's that.” 

  


* * *

  


Bull expects questions, when they get back to Skyhold. 

Instead Krem punches him in the arm as hard as he can, and then buys the first round of drinks when he settles back in his usual place in the tavern. The Chargers settle in around him like they know where they belong, and Bull is struck by the fact every bit of it feels right. Dorian sticks around for a couple drinks, even. The rest of the Inner Circle welcomes him as if nothing terrible had happened, as if he'd just gone out on an errand for the Inquisition. They ask about the dragon, almost wistfully, but that's about it. 

A few days later, after one of the Valo-Kas drops him a note from Shokrakar suggesting he looks at the patrol log, he knows exactly what he's meant to find in it. He's not surprised to find a bottle of the antidote waiting for him in his quarters, afterwards. 

“Yeah, yeah, my soul is dust,” he finds himself saying, brow furrowed as he looks down the side of the battlements. “Yours is scattered all over the ground, though so...” He turns to find the Inquisitor looking at him with a soft smile. “Sorry, Boss.” 

He's startled to realize she doesn't look surprised. Shokrakar, he thinks. Right. 

“You made your choice, then,” Herah says, stepping closer. 

“I guess, yeah,” he finds himself replying, offering an almost sheepish look. “See, I figure if I regret it, I can always throw myself off a cliff, or something.” 

“Or get eaten by a dragon, apparently,” Herah points out, voice dry. 

Bull laughs. 

“Or _something_ , yes,” he insists, shrugging. “I'm gonna be honest with you, I'm not sure I buy that whole reject the Qunari, not the Qun, shit your Shokrakar is all about. But I guess I can... I don't know, try to figure things out, one day at the time.” 

He blinks when she extends a hand. 

“If you're going to start over, I guess we should too, right?” She says, eyebrows arched. “Hi, I'm Herah Adaar. I like tiny cakes and making things explode.” 

He grasps her hand with his, and her grip is warm and strong. Reassuring. 

“I'm The Iron Bull,” he says, “I like puns and killing things.” 

“Nice,” she replies, grinning. “See, I run this thing, it's called the Inquisition. And it's pretty much just puns and killing things in hopes of fixing everything else. I think you'd fit right in, if you wanted, The Iron Bull.” 

He grins right back. 

“I think I'd like that, Boss. I think I'd like that a lot.” 

  


* * *

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It only took forever, because Bull was being hard to write. Here's hoping it makes sense. It's not the end of Bull's issues with the Qun, of course not, but baby steps, right?


	5. rilienus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which all Venatori are intrinsically evil and good people are never forced to make bad choices. (That would be a solid no, actually.)

  


* * *

  


_v. rilienus_

  


* * *

  


“Bear,” Sera says, voice uncharacteristically flat. It doesn’t last, more so when it’s clear no one really heard her. “Really freakin’ huge angry _bear!”_

Dorian’s not quite sure of the order of events that follow, only that after Blackwall and Bull were thrown thirty feet away by the initial charge, no one had stood there to wait for the beast to turn around and try a second time. There aren’t many places to run for safety, in the Emerald Graves, not many that don’t include an uncomfortable number of potential civilian casualties anyway. But there’s a lot of trees, and most of them quite tall, so there’s that. 

He shifts his grip on the branch and tries not to lose his staff. 

“I could potshot it from here,” he offers, politely not looking up, since Sera’s ass is mostly resting on his head. “Considering Bull’s ax _shattered_ on its hide, it might take a while, but… options?” 

“I _told_ you dawnstone was brittle,” Blackwall says, again, holding onto the back of Bull’s harness with a supremely sour expression on his face. 

“Shut up,” Bull mutters and scrambles up the rough bark when he starts sliding down. 

“Maybe it’ll get bored and leave on its own,” Dorian goes on, not even annoyed that he’s being ignored. 

The great bloody bear chooses exactly that moment to slam its considerable bulk against the tree they’re desperately clinging to. It doesn’t budge, not completely, but there’s a lot of swearing and tenacious clawing to keep their places. 

“Bears _suck_ ,” Sera tells no one in particular. 

Dorian wholeheartedly agrees. 

The beast – big as a barn, and Dorian had never really known what people meant when they said that, until today – chooses precisely that moment to slam against the tree again, making the wood creak ominously. 

“Vivienne will never let me live this down,” Dorian sighs despondently. 

Below, the bear roars again. 

  


* * *

  


Later, much later, Dorian sits inside his tent – in all honesty, it's Bull's tent but he likes to share with him, because it's by necessity larger and Dorian so loathes feeling constrained – and works arduously to scrub blood and guts off his skin, while Bull lays on his side and watches him with hooded, keen eyes. Bull has washed his ax, if only because Vivienne's stern voice echoes between his ears even without her actually present, but he takes a moment to sit there, inside the cramped space, knees slightly bent and elbows resting on his thighs as he studies Dorian's methodical efforts to clean himself while the stains sink in deeper into his own clothes. 

It's... an interesting thing, he supposes, new and shiny like a bauble spread out in a merchant's stall, the realization of just how much he enjoys the blood and the gore and the exahustion of a good fight. He hadn't been sure, before, if that was really part of himself, or just another concave mirror Hissrad had put up for the sake of doing his job. Bull has found, over the weeks, that he's not really sure about many, many things, but the novelty of discovering each of them and making them his own refuses to fade each time. 

So far, he's consciously claimed this: Hissrad's keen eyes, which he's found to be both useful and nigh natural, and his taste in mead and puns, which feel oddly like familiar, well-worn boots sliding into place. His wit, however, has proven a lost cause, for all Bull has tried several times to capture it: it's ill-shaped and brittle, covered in sharp edges that he's now certain were honed by hatred and bitterness and the million other things Hissrad had spent a lifetime forcing himself to swallow down. Seheron eludes him entirely, like the burning coil burrowed in the furthest recess of a furnace, emitting enough heat to be known but too far away to reach. 

Bull is not wholly certain that's not a good thing. 

“I know I'm distracting,” Dorian says, drawing Bull's attention back to the moment as he offers a smile that could half-way pass as coy. “Believe me, I'm well aware, this is why I keep so few mirrors in my quarters.” 

“I've never seen your quarters,” Bull points out, small smile tugging his lips in turn, when Dorian goes on, regardless. 

“But truly, you needn't _moon_ ,” he says, eyebrows arched teasingly, “at least not if you care to wash yourself first, you've got license to touch after all.” Dorian expects a witty retort or one of Bull's ludicrous puns punctuated by a leer. When he gets neither, he crawls over to Bull's side of the tent, frowning. “Bull?” 

“It's... it's not that I don't want to,” he admits, far easier than he thought he would, looking at Dorian with a faintly starving look that had nothing to do with food and yet somehow pulling away at the same time. “It wouldn't be the same, as before. It wouldn't...” He fumbles for a moment, before offering a small shrug. “It wouldn't be what you want.” 

“What I want is some permutation of our bodies, but mostly our cocks, that somehow ends up in orgasm, hopefully more than one, since you went and set up the bar that high,” Dorian replies, lip twitching and making his mustache echo the motion tauntingly. “You've earned the right for me to not be picky, I hope you feel suitably humbled by that privilege and understand how rare that is.” 

Bull swallows hard. 

“No,” he says, licking his lips, frowning. “ _I_ didn't earn that, _Hissrad_ did.” 

Dorian's kneejerk reaction is to squint and snap back that Bull _is_ Hissrad. His little elven weasel of a friend, Gatt, had made a strong point of it, after all. But the look Bull is giving him is entirely too vulnerable for Dorian's taste, and he realizes with some trepidation that he just can't bring himself to say so, without feeling like an unmitigated bastard. The air in the tent changes as tension raises, and Dorian closes his mouth and purses his lips in thought. 

He'd decided, of course, to refuse to become the Iron Bull's keeper, despite what the Chargers and the Inquisitor or anyone else thought. Because the idea filled him with enough dread to make his teeth hurt. But he'd been there, when Bull killed the dragon – when they both killed the goddamn dragon – and he'd seen the joy in his eyes and heard the savage thrill in his voice, and he'd decided to be his friend instead. 

Friends, in Dorian's unique and apparently unheard of interpretation of the word, did not actually set out to hurt each other in lieu of entertainment. He stares at Bull's face and that damnable open weakness on display, and he feels nauseous about the weight of the implicit trust being placed on him because, and this is something Dorian knows quite well but has always refused to let others know, he's always been a shitty friend. That's why he has none left. 

Dorian closes his eyes and sighs. 

“This isn't a conversation to be had in a tent,” he says, rather than ask, and offers a smile to offset Bull's cautious look. “But we are going to have this conversation, at some point. Preferably when we're back in Skyhold and my greatest concern is not in what new creative way are we going to die tomorrow.” 

“I-” 

Dorian rolls back to his side of the tent and under his blankets, rather than listen to whatever terrifying thing is going to crawl out of Bull's throat, going by the look on his eye. 

“Go to sleep, the Iron Bull,” Dorian sighs, mock-forlorn, “we've got a lot of things to kill in the morning, and you don't want your performance to be _subpar_.” 

  


* * *

  


The next morning, they leave the Emerald Graves and cross into the Exalted Plains. 

Herah takes one good look at the packs of soldiers running into skirmishes all across the place, the still burning ruins of small houses and the piles of corpses lying everywhere, and she refuses to stop there altogether. 

She wants to, of course she does, but she knows damn well they don't have enough forces to make even a small dent into the problems slowly tearing the Dales apart. She sends the forces she can spare away, and then she leads her Inner Circle to move on, refusing to look at their faces and what might be lurking there. 

The pace of their march becomes brutal, but there is a tilt of something savage pulling at the Inquisitor's mouth and no one, not even Dorian, complains about their traveling times. 

Bull is vaguely grateful, if only because Dorian crawls into the tent each night and passes out without comment, and so he's gained a bit more time to try and put his thoughts in order and figure out how to explain everything that needs explaining, to Dorian. 

He absolutely does not ask himself why he'd bother to explain anything to Dorian, really, preferring instead to accept the certainty in his bones as it was. 

Bull has discovered he has also inherited Hissrad's ability to be selectively obtuse on purpose, and refuses to feel particularly bad about it. 

  


* * *

  


The Western Approach sneaks up on them seemingly out of nowhere. It's a ludicrous notion, of course, but between the demanding, near merciless pace the Inquisitor has been keeping since they left the Exalted Plains behind, two full weeks ago, and the sudden burst of heat slamming face-first into them like a maul, they don't really notice the dying vegetation until their feet are sinking into sand. Then they stand there, watching the wind draw patterns in the sand, whispering echoes that sound almost like words. 

“Well, I've got to hand it to you,” Dorian says, breaking the moment with a short sigh, “this might legitimately be the worst place you've ever dragged me into.” 

Herah barks a laugh, high-strung and borderline hysterical. 

“I live to please,” she says, offering a sliver of a smile. “C'mon, let's not keep Scout Harding waiting.” 

“You say that like we're not gonna get there before her,” Sera mutters snidely, the sentiment echoed by Blackwall's dry snort. 

“ _Anyway_ ,” Herah says, tone positively Inquisitorial, “it shouldn't be long now.” 

  


* * *

  


They don't get there before Scout Harding, but they do arrive in time to see the group of scouts dispatch a small pack of hyenas with a decidedly bloodthirsty zeal to their actions. 

“In short,” Scout Harding says briskly, after a report that seems more like a laundry list of complaints to Herah's ears, “this might just be the worst place in the world.” 

“Well,” Herah replies, slowly and a tad awkward, “so long as we're all on the same page, then.” 

“We don't have many men and supplies are running short,” Harding adds, her lips twisted in concern, “but we could split up and try to set up an advancement camp southwest, where the Wardens were sighted.” 

Herah considers this for a moment. Even with the Valo-Kas providing support in Ferelden, the bulk of the Inquisition forces are still stretched too thin to fully secure the route across Orlais. She'd shed them along the way, guarding pockets of safety and normality along the way, even indulging Sera's ludicrous request for a march across Verchel, but the truth of the matter is that they just don't have resources. Not enough to really take on the vast emptiness of sand and rocks and flat out _evil_ that seems to slither beneath every dune. To split up the camp and spread themselves even thinner would very well mean death for most of the Scout team, and Harding is still looking at her, serene and expectant and _willing_. 

They will if she asks them, Herah knows. 

She could just as easily tell them to throw themselves on their swords, and they would, too. Herah takes care not to shudder, for all she wants to, as she realizes she's been so busy trying to run away from the shadow of Shokrakar and her wide, soul-baring smiles, she's hardly noticed the damage she might have caused in the process. She remembers, all of a sudden, that she's the Inquisitor, with a stark clarity that terrifies her. She is responsible for the lives of everyone in the whole blighted world apparently, and she's been acting like a scared little girl because she's not sure she'll ever be good enough to earn Shokrakar's approval. 

Herah wants to scream, to curl up into a ball and tear out her own hair. 

Instead she smiles, magnanimous with the ease of a practiced lie, and shakes her head. 

“That won't be necessary,” she says, and goes as far as to drop a comforting hand on Harding's shoulder, “we're not trying to hold the Approach, after all. We just need to reach Hawke in time.” 

“We have maps,” Harding offers, nonetheless, and sounds almost a little hopeful to be of use. It makes Herah slightly sick, but she smothers the grimace before it even reaches her face. “And a good source of water, which is no small thing, I suppose. At least take those?” 

“Gladly,” Herah promises, “thank you for your hard work, Scout Harding.” 

“You work the hardest, Inquisitor,” Harding says, offering a small smile, but there's pride in her voice, “we're just trying to keep up with you.” 

Herah smiles and smiles and inside she swallows another scream. She wants to take off into the dunes immediately, for the sake of not spending any more time surrounded by people she's failed and haven't even realized it, but one look at her Inner Circle and their wary, stubborn faces makes her force herself to stay. At least one night, she promises herself, with solid sleep and actual food. 

Just one night. 

  


* * *

  


“I'll go,” Dorian says, putting a hand on her shoulder with a loud, dramatic sigh. When Herah opens her mouth to argue, he arches both eyebrows at her. “You're not ready for it, anyway. Your math's still off.” 

Herah huffs a small, awkward laugh and nods, reluctant. Then no one gets a chance to say anything, because Dorian simply waves an arm to wrap himself in the cool blue light of a barrier and steps off the edge of the cliff with a strange gracefulness that still somehow doesn't negate the twitch of panic down in Herah's gut, watching him fall. He steps off the fall as easily as he stepped off the edge, only he's sixty feet below them, against sheer rock side. 

Bull notices the way Herah's shoulders hunch and tense, when Dorian disappears into the rocks, apparently following the glint that caught Herah's attention in the first place, into a hidden cave deep below. He can tell something's bothering the Inquisitor, but he can't exactly tell what. He hasn't recovered the entirety of Hissrad's skill set properly, and he's never known the Inquisitor well enough to guess blindly. He goes for a joke, instead: 

“…is that a Mage thing?” Bull asks, forcing a skeptic tone into his voice even though he knows the answer well enough. “The walking off cliffs thing?” 

“ _No_ ,” Vivienne and Solas chorus back, an offended deadpan and a vaguely constipated snort, respectively. 

“Pure Tevinter crazy then,” Bull sums up with a satisfied nod, “good to know.” 

Herah chokes on a laugh, morose, and misses the moment Dorian crawls back out. Bull is unrepentant, despite the way she startles when Dorian's voice bounces up to them. 

“Nothing _too_ interesting sadly, but perhaps I could still get a hand to get back up?” 

Bull throws down a rope, before the Inquisitor can put herself together enough for a smartass reply, and speaks up to make sure no one but him notices the fact: 

“Gonna have to content yourself with just rope, this time around.” 

Dorian makes a pointedly rude gesture from below, but Bull feels oddly certain that he's smiling, for all he can't quite see clearly that far down. He's noticed, as of late, that he's been certain about many things, when it comes to Dorian, and not all of them can be easily rationalized. 

But then Dorian is crawling up the small ravine, looking insufferably smug as he drops a satchel full of supplies and some broken instruments into Herah's hands, and Bull decides he maybe should keep his focus elsewhere. 

“Huh,” Herah says, looking down at the bag and the complicated crests on it. 

“That's property of the University of Orlais,” Vivienne points out, eyebrows arched curiously. “One can only imagine what it's doing here.” 

“I'll be happy so long as it doesn't turn out Corypheus has made friends there too,” Herah sighs, shaking her head. “Let's go.” 

  


* * *

  


Watching the Inquisitor seal a rift is always a spectacle, no matter how many times they've done it. They relax somewhat as Herah pulls back her hand sharply, commanding the rift to close, as always glad to be rid of the threat of demons, if only for the moment. 

The peace doesn't last, as an explosion rocks a dune up ahead and they find themselves trailing after the Inquisitor whose first reaction, of course, is to run up towards the source. 

Past the crest of the dune, they find a set of charred corpses still smoking and a single Venatori mage standing there calmly. 

“You're late, Inquisitor,” the man says, voice slightly muffled by the mask, but Bull notices instantly the sudden, dreadful stiffening of Dorian's spite. Weirdly, the man's words do not sound like a taunt, but rather a complaint. One further punctuated when he pulls off the mask to reveal his face. “I've been expecting you.” 

The Venatori is tall but gangly and his face sports the look of someone who's been starved or, far more likely, _bled_ regularly. His hair is a mess of knotted black strands peeking from his hood and his face is mostly covered in a gnarly, unkempt beard. His expression shifts, however, when he meets Dorian's stare. 

“...ah,” he says, not quite deflating, but suddenly looking twice as old and withered at once. 

“What do you mean?” Herah asks, at the same time Dorian steps forward, eyes gone cold with fury and his jaw set dangerously. 

“ _ **Rilienus.**_ ” 

“…I can explain,” the man says, dropping his staff on the sand and raising his hands, palms side up and fingers wide open. 

In a move that makes more than one person splutter, Dorian throws down his own staff as well and stalks forward the ten steps necessary to slam his fist into his face. 

The man stumbles back but doesn’t fall, and rubs a hand to his jaw as he offers a tiny, awkward laugh. 

“Yeah, I probably deserve that one,” he mutters. “Hi, Dorian.” 

Dorian makes a sound akin to a swan dying - Bull wishes keenly he didn’t know what that sounds like, exactly, but he does, and that noise it’s just as terrible and foreboding - and takes another swing at the stranger. 

The Inquisitor and the Inquisition stare somewhat dumbfounded as Dorian leaps at the man with his bare hands, not quite sure what's going on. 

“I’m going to _kill_ you,” he snarls, when the stranger ducks with a yelp. 

“Let me explain first!” The man splutters and scrambles back, away from Dorian and his now clawing hands. 

“ _Necromancer!”_ Dorian sing-songs viciously. “I can kill you and _then_ rise you back from the dead, so you can explain.” 

“Wouldn’t that be blood magic?” The man, who clearly has a less developed sense of self-preservation than Dorian himself, given by his tone, says with a little squint and then scrambles to run until the pile of still burning corpses is between him and Dorian’s twitching fingers. “Aren’t you staunchly anti-blood magic? That was always your whole _thing_ , Dorian.” 

“That’s how much I fucking _care_ , Rilienus,” Dorian snarls as he makes another undignified dive to grab him and forcefully remove his head from his shoulders with his bare hands, if possible, “I’m willing to make an exception _just_ for you.” 

“Dorian!” Herah calls out, then raises a hand to stop the rest from interfering just yet, though Varric and Sera have their aim trained on the stranger and Vivienne and Solas' staves are crackling with restrained magic. “Hey!” 

Dorian doesn't heed the call, lunging after the Venatori ferally. Rilienus slides on the loose sand and nearly loses his footing, and thus he can't help but collide with the full brunt of Dorian's tackle. They roll down the sand, kicking and punching and biting, all the while hissing like wet cats. It's a little bit surreal, for everyone involved, to see Dorian, usually so staunchly disdainful of anything approaching actual physical fighting and always eager to praise magical prowess and its superiority over it, give into the skirmish with bloodthirsty zeal worthy of _Bull_. 

“How fucking could you!” He yowls, making to scratch Rilienus' eyes out. “The Venatori, Laertes! Fucking _Venatori!”_

Rilienus dodges a swipe of teeth and fists and then promptly digs his knee into Dorian's gut, using the momentary pause to shove Dorian around until he is pinned down on the ground. 

“For fuck's _sake_ , Pavus,” Rilienus snarls in Dorian's face, black eyes seeming to glow with his anger, “you know _better_ that that!” 

Rilienus tenses horribly when large hands grab his chest and forcefully pull him off Dorian. He twists and hisses in Bull's grip, baring his teeth at him like a viper rearing back to strike. 

“I'd stop squirming if I were you,” Bull says dryly, not particularly impressed by the mage's attempts to break the hold, “Boss hasn't decided not to murder you yet.” 

“If you think-” Rilienus starts, but gets interrupted by Dorian kicking him square in the chest, hard enough to make his ribs _creak_. 

“ _No one_ is going to kill the son of a bitch but _me_ ,” he snarls, rubbing blood off his split lip. “Bull, let him go.” 

“But-” 

“ _Let him go_ ,” Dorian snarls, teeth stained red with blood and eyes all but sparkling with fury. 

“Bull,” Herah says, feeling immensely tired and also dead certain that this trip is about to get infinitely more complicated, “it's okay.” 

Bull wants to argue that it clearly isn't, but he does as he's told, releasing his hold on Rilienus and taking a small amount of satisfaction in watching the lanky mage stumble somewhat to regain his footing. 

“Are you okay?” Herah asks, tentative like someone approaching a primed mine spell circle. 

“ _No_ ,” Rilienus and Dorian snap back in tandem, then start glaring at each other again with a disturbingly matching violent glint in their eyes. 

Herah resists the urge to scream. 

“Rilenus, right?” She tries instead, choosing to focus on the stranger than Dorian's frothing rage. 

“Ri _li_ enus,” he corrects her, glaring nastily at her with what Herah thinks is entirely too much arrogance for someone who is clearly outnumbered and apparently about to ask her a _favor_. “Rilienus Laertes, Senior Enchanter of Vyrantium.” 

“And fucking senior Venatori,” Dorian snaps, eyes narrowed viciously, “don't forget about that!” 

“Either you shut your fucking trap for five goddamn minutes, Pavus,” Rilienus snarls back, glowering threateningly, “or I _will_ fucking shut you up.” 

“I'd like to see you try!” Dorian replies, tilting his chin up defiantly. 

Herah sees Rilienus clench his fists warningly and allows herself a minute groan. 

“Dorian, Maker help me, I will _sit_ on you,” she says, voice sharp enough to give the ludicrous threat some weight. “It's hot, I'm tired, I'm hungry, I've got sand in places I never even _knew_ sand could be in. Can you _please_ shut up five minutes and let the Venatori say his piece so I can decide whether I'm going to squish his head like a grape or not?” 

Dorian gives her an angry, vicious look, and stomps away to recover his and Rilienus' staves. 

“Thank you,” Herah says, politely ignoring the very much impolite gesture Dorian throws at her, without looking. She focuses her eyes on Rilienus. “Now then. You were saying?” 

Rilienus looks at her and her companions and glares brazenly in the face of their suspicious looks. 

“The Venatori are holding the Circle of Vyrantium hostage,” he says, folding his arms over his chest. “You're going to help me free them.” 

Something in Herah's gut twists unpleasantly at the command – because it _is_ a command, she realizes, not a plea or a request – and she finds herself glaring back. 

“Am I now,” she says, fingers clutching the handle of her staff tightly. 

“Yes,” Rilienus replies, with absolute certainly. 

“You're not very good at asking for help,” Varric points out wryly, finger still firmly in Bianca's trigger. 

“I'm not asking for _help_ ,” Rilienus hisses, seemingly growing in size as he bares his teeth at them. “I'm _demanding_ you clean up the goddamn mess _you_ made.” At the look of surprise on Herah's face, he sneers. Suddenly Herah understands Dorian's urge to punch him quite clearly. “If you hadn't freed the mages in Redcliff, Corypheus would have never considered forcing Vyrantium to fill up the Venatori ranks.” 

“Ha!” Vivienne laughs, sharp and vicious, “forcing, of course. This is clearly a trap, Inquisitor. We know very well the Venatori have deep support in the Imperium. More likely they joined willingly and this sob story is meant to court your guilt.” 

Rilienus expression melts into something feral and dangerous, and Herah feels the hair stand on the back of her neck, because even though he's still outnumbered and unarmed, he suddenly looks about as dangerous as a brooding high dragon. 

“Yes,” he says, voice sibilant and full of hatred, giving Vivienne a look of pure contempt, “because the _thirteen year old boy_ that your troops slaughtered last week _definitely_ swore fealty to the fucking darkspawn Magister of his own free will.” That shuts them up pretty effectively, but Rilienus' tirade is just getting started. “And it's not like the Magisters whose children have been taken would be slightly hesitant in raising a hand against their kidnappers, when all they know for certain is that the Venatori will not hesitate to kill them if they do. Of course not,” Rilienus spits out, feral and dangerous, “it's just the Tevinters being _evil_ , because that's what they've always fucking _been_.” 

The silence is deep, uncomfortable and mostly horrified. Herah stares at him, not really sure of what she should do next. 

“Inquisitor,” Dorian says, sounding much calmer even if his eyes are still hard, “a word in private?” 

“Guard him,” Herah finds herself ordering, “just don't... don't hurt him. Yet.” 

  


* * *

  


“Give me five minutes alone with him,” Dorian says without preamble, voice low to make sure the sound doesn't carry across the distance, back where the rest of the Inner Circle is standing awkwardly around Rilienus. “And I'll figure out if he's lying or not.” 

“You'd need only two to kill him where he stands,” Herah finds herself saying, a little loss at what to do. 

Dorian barks a sharp laugh. 

“Please,” he says, one eyebrow arched challengingly, “half a minute is all I'd really need.” He sobers up slightly. “But I'd like to find out the truth, before I do something rash.” The look Herah gives him speaks volumes. Dorian scoffs. “Fine. _More_ rash.” 

Herah frowns, she knows Dorian loathes questions about the past, but the situation merits them, she reckons. 

“Who is he, Dorian?” She asks, cautious and trying for gentle, but not quite making the mark. 

Dorian sighs. 

“The greatest asshole I've ever known,” Dorian says, but there's no bite to the words, like he's performing an old part from a play. Herah is surprised to realize he actually sounds... sad. “And my friend.” It sounds more like brother than friend to Herah, who grew up with the Valo-Kas as siblings and knows quite a bit about loving someone so much you want to kill them sometimes. Dorian gives her a miserable look. “I haven't seen him in _fifteen years_ , Herah, but I find it hard to believe that he'd willingly join the Venatori. They stand for everything Rilienus hates.” He sighs, running a hand over his hair. “Then again, he was always as vicious as he was pretty, so I'd like to make sure before I commit myself to madness.” 

“Commit yourself?” Herah asks, one eyebrow arched. 

Dorian shrugs. 

“You don't have to help him,” he says, running his hand through his hair again, but given the roll through the dunes, his hair is nowhere near as pristine as usual. “I'm the one who caused the mess in the first place, after all. I was the one who asked you to save the Redcliff mages.” He swallows hard. “And Vyrantium was my Circle, too. The only one I managed not to get kicked out of, despite everything. I can stay with him and sort this out while you go meet up with Hawke.” 

Something cracks beneath Herah's ribs at the sight of Dorian's conspiratorial, easy smile. Maybe it's the blood drying on his split lip or the still festering realization of her recent failure. Maybe it's the heat. Maybe it's the fact she's so tired she wouldn't mind lying down and not waking up for another decade. 

“You have my absolute trust,” Herah says, swallowing hard. “If you think Rilienus' cause is worth championing, I'll champion it. If you say he's trustworthy, I'll put my trust in him. And if you think it's a trap and he should be put down,” she adds, taking a deep breath, “then I'll step aside and let you do it yourself.” 

Dorian stares at her with wide eyes, something vulnerable and tender in plain view. 

“Oh,” he says, swallowing hard, “no pressure at all, huh.” 

Herah smiles a little brokenly herself. 

“Yeah.” 

They don't hug because they're still in view of the rest of their companions and Dorian is keenly allergic to public displays of affection, as Herah well knows. But she brushes her fingers against his bruised mouth, and something in his eyes convinces her he _understands_. 

“Let's go,” she says, lips quirked into a small smirk, “you've got a friend to catch up with.” 

  


* * *

  


Herah watches Dorian walk off with Rilienus towards the cave visible on the rock cliff in the distance and uncharitably regrets letting him take on the easier task, when she's confronted by the loud, disagreeing complaining from her companions. 

She loves them all, she really does, but every once in a while she'd appreciate it if everything she chooses to do didn't become a goddamn contest of wills. 

  


* * *

  


Rilienus looks surly but not particularly afraid when Dorian seals the entrance of the cave behind them. He catches his staff with ease, when Dorian throws it at him, and then he hisses in surprise when Dorian fadesteps into his personal space and sinks the bladed tip of his own staff into his thigh. 

Rilienus stares down at the wound and the blood oozing out and staining his pants with a small, puzzled frown, as if it doesn't hurt so much as baffle him. 

“...did you just fucking _stab_ me?” He asks incredulously, looking up to find Dorian's eyes inches away from his own. 

“In the _leg_ ,” Dorian points out sharply, “non-lethally. Which is more than you deserve if you've gone and joined the _Venatori_.” 

“You stupid-” Rilienus begins, but his rant dies out as he realizes that Dorian's eyes have begun to glow a disturbing reddish hue. He looks down to see the blood glowing on his leg and sighs, relaxing. “Well go on, then, consider it freely given, so you don't even have to feel existential guilt about it. Ask away.” 

Dorian swallows back the bitter laugh and pulls his staff away from the wound, stepping back as he activates the spell. 

“Are you a member of the Venatori?” He asks, without preamble, and forces himself to look as Rilienus' expression becomes slightly slack and his eyes unfocus slightly. 

The roll of nausea at his own actions is enough to threaten to drive him to his knees, but Dorian refuses to give in to it, swallowing hard as he awaits his answer. 

“Yes,” he replies, voice sedate and calm, eerie to Dorian's ears due to the distinct lack of disdain in it. 

“Did you join willingly?” Dorian asks next, stubbornly resisting the urge to scream. 

“Yes,” Rilienus' mouth says with Rilienus' voice, even though Rilienus is currently not present. Not entirely. 

Dorian swallows hard again. 

“Why?” He asks, fingers clutching his staff viciously. 

“Because Galba and Vitellius are Ventatori,” Rilienus replies, and a ghost of himself returns, because not even the spell could hope to quench the vicious, murderous hate he feels for them. Dorian remembers the Primus Enchanter and the Magister in charge of Vyrantium, and he finds himself echoing the sentiment quite earnestly. “They sold Vyrantium to Corypheus for the sake of power. They were to take those who could fight and slaughter those who couldn't, to send a message to the Magisterium. They wouldn't listen to a victim, but they would listen to an _equal_.” 

“So you really _are_ a senior Venatori,” Dorian finds himself saying, sardonic, because he can't help himself. 

“Yes,” Rilienus says, the flare of emotion once more smothered by the spell. 

Dorian shakes his head and releases the magic slowly, careful to not overwhelm Rilienus with the rebound. Rilienus stumbles as he's freed and only glares lightly at Dorian when he helps him keep upright. 

“You sure you don't want to ask anything else?” He asks, vicious and rude, even as Dorian presses his hand into the wound and casts the only healing spell he's mastered during his training with the Valo-Kas. “Not going to drag out every last scrap of information you can? Make absolutely certain I'm trustworthy?” 

Dorian gives him a resigned look. 

“Just because you're willing,” he says, one eyebrow arched, “it doesn't mean I'm going to force you.” 

Rilienus flushes, tan skin darkening slightly before he glowers. 

“Spare me the bullshit, Pavus,” he bites out bitterly, and raises his staff, pointing the jagged edges of the swirl-like decoration at the top straight at Dorian's throat. “I don't need your pity, and if you think-” 

“You didn't have my pity fifteen years ago, and you're not going to have it now,” Dorian replies, pulling his hand away from Rilienus' thigh to hold the mage's hand over the grip of his staff. “You can, however, have my rage. Just like back then.” 

Rilienus is quiet for a moment, closing his eyes as he takes a deep breath. He remembers that rage, of course. It is no small thing Dorian is offering, and he knows it first hand. He licks his lips as he looks up, eyes shrewd. 

“You're still the same, aren't you?” His lips twitch into a smirk. “Same insufferable, self-righteous champion of lost causes, who could never just leave things _be_.” 

“Just like you're still an unlikable, arrogant shithead, physically incapable of not spitting on every helping hand available, yes,” Dorian laughs, and steps back, giving Rilienus enough space to stretch his newly healed leg. “Same as we always were, my friend, just gently bruised by the years.” Rilienus snorts bitterly and Dorian's smile widens slightly. “...some less gently and more bruised than others, admittedly.” The silence stretches once more, almost comfortable and surprisingly not awkward. Then Dorian sighs and the moment passes. “Given the fact that I've always known you to be an asshole, _not_ an idiot, I want to assume you have a plan of some sorts. Beyond insulting the Inquisitor and making ballsy demands to her face, that is.” He arched both eyebrows as Rilienus made a rude gesture. “Nice going getting her approval, by the way. I'd never seen Adaar consider murdering someone so quickly, when they weren't actively trying to murder her back.” 

“I have the bones of a plan,” Rilienus says, ignoring the tirade entirely. “But let's share it with the whole class, because I don't feel like explaining it twice.” 

Dorian rolls his eyes, amused despite himself. 

“Oh c'mon, you big baby,” he says, throwing an arm around Rilienus shoulders and using it to shove him towards the exit. 

Rilienus makes an angry noise in the back of his throat, but doesn't actually shrug the arm off. 

  


* * *

  


“Yeah, I see your point, Inquisitor,” Varric says, as they watch the two mages climb up the dunes, still holding each other, “definitely brothers.” 

Then Rilienus and Dorian get close enough to hear what they are saying. 

“Well, excuse me if I don't take advice on blood magic from the melodramatic twit that swoons at the sight of his own blood,” Rilienus hisses snidely, his own arm thrown around Dorian's back and his hood pulled back to reveal nearly three feet of limp, dirty hair. 

“Well, close enough,” Varric amends with a wince, though it doesn't do much good to soothe the still scowling faces all around. 

“So!” Dorian says airily, once they are within polite conversation distance – which is also easily murder distance, though he tries to ignore the thought. “Good news! I've managed to determine quite conclusively that while Rilienus here remains an unmitigated bastard, he's not, in fact, a Venatori.” 

Rilienus gives him a side look. 

“I _literally_ just told you that I _am_ ,” he interjects, giving Dorian a dubious look. 

Dorian presses his hand on his face and shoves him hard, without bothering to look at him. 

“Shut up, Rilienus,” Dorian says, without skipping a beat. “He's got a plan to rescue the Circle and I've a mind to not leave my countrymen at the not really sweet mercies of the Venatori. So.” 

Eyes turn expectantly towards the Venatori that is apparently also not a Venatori, most of them skeptical or downright hostile. 

Rilienus stares back at his audience and very pointedly remains silent. 

After perhaps a minute of very awkward silence, Rilienus turns to look at Dorian, eyebrows arched innocently. 

“What?” He says, lips twitching into a smirk, “you just literally told me to _shut up_.” 

Cassandra makes the single loudest disgusted noise she's ever made in her _life_. Herah has to look and make sure she hasn't sprained something in the process. Vivienne looks ready to murder someone, Rilienus first of all, with her bare hands. Blackwall is burying his face in his hands. Varric's hung his head in defeat. Solas is staring at Rilienus like he's not entirely sure the man is real. Dorian groans and looks up at the sky as if pleading for patience. Bull is staring at Dorian like he's gone insane. 

And Sera... 

Sera just chokes on a cackle and starts laughing so loud she needs to sit down on the dunes. 

Herah's only consolation, the one small mercy she can think of, is that she left Cole behind in Skyhold. She doesn't want to think about Cole and Rilienus ever being within a nautical mile of each other. That could only end _poorly_. 

  


* * *

  


Rilienus redeems himself – not really – by leading the high-strung, irritable Inquisition to the nearest Venatori camp, which not only has access to fresh water and actual food, but it allows them all to step out of the sun into the nice, cool shade of the cave. Sure, they had to murder the three Venatori that were guarding it, but if anything, it did help broadcast his lack of reluctance to murder his former comrades. And if anyone is curious about the blood on Dorian's hand or Rilienus' thigh, no one is curious enough to actually ask about it. 

Despite his clear penchant to be disagreeable just because he could, Rilienus sobers up nicely as it comes time for him to explain himself. He takes command of the maps Harding provided and updates them easily, meticulously adding everything of interest in the Aproach: from Venatori camps and supply drop off locations, to varghest nests. The final marks he puts on the mark are for Griffon Keep and Coracavus. 

“Coracavus is the main Venatori headquarters, in the South, with anything between a hundred and fifty to two hundred battle mages at any given time. All camps rotate personnel every week, and every three days for the gatekeeper teams stationed here and here,” Rilienus says, pointing at the map. One of those gates is dangerously close to the Inquisition camp that Harding and her team managed to establish, and the thought sits uncomfortable in Herah's gut. “Griffon Keep acts as a relay station between the camps and Coracavus, distributing supply runs and acting as a rest stop. It's manned by a skeleton crew of barely twenty mages. We'll have to take both at once.” 

“Why?” Bull asks, frowning because those numbers don't sound very promising. 

Rilienus gives him a piercing look, expression severe. 

“The Venatori are forcing Vyrantium in place with phylacteries,” he says grimly. “Tevinter phylacteries,” he clarifies, when the reaction he gets is not what he expected. “They're not just good to track down mages, you can use them to control them, or outright kill them, all from half the world away if necessary. The phylacteries are kept in the Keep, far away from the mages they control.” He shakes his head. “Besides, you don't want to stay in Coracavus after it falls. Not only does it reeks of ruin, blood and death, it's crawling with demons and darkspawn.” Blackwall makes an angry noise in the back of his throat, but Rilienus summarily ignores him. “We'll need to split in two teams, one to capture Griffon Keep and destroy the phylacteries, and another to storm Coracavus and destroy the Venatori. Once the phylacteries are gone, Vyrantium will supplement your forces and help you clean up the stragglers.” 

“I'm all up for Venatori mass murder,” Dorian says, arching an eyebrow, “but I hope your plan doesn't expect us to take on two hundred Tevinter battle mages on our own.” 

“Of course not,” Rilienus snorts. “I'm going to cripple them first,” he adds, smiling unpleasantly, “soften them up for you.” At the looks he gets, he shrugs. “I'm a staffsmith. One of the skills I used to gain rank among the Venatori was to procure them with high quality staffs.” Rilienus offers a smirk. “Everyone knows quality staves are made with blood, but few people know that if it's the smith's blood, then he or she can override the staff from a distance. Explosively so.” 

“You are a blood mage,” Cassandra says, voice carefully neutral as she resists the urge to narrow her eyes. 

Rilienus gives her a look that condemns her mental prowess quite loudly. 

“So pretty,” he says, sneering, “and yet so slow.” 

“Rilienus,” Dorian snaps warningly, shoving at his shoulder. 

“Yes,” he says, rolling his eyes to clearly express his thoughts on the matter, “I'm a blood mage. The sky is blue. Corypheus is a cunt. May we move on?” 

“You expect us to use blood magic to do this,” Vivienne begins, accusingly, lips twitching in irritation at both his clear lack of manners, and the outrage of the proposition. 

“Of course not,” Rilienus interrupts her with another roll of his eyes. “ _I'm_ going to use blood magic, seeing how it's my blood in those staves and all. They have other weapons in the fortress, but hopefully I'll be able to cripple if not ouright kill the bulk of their forces. You can then finish them off as you please. Sing them verses of the Chant if it makes you feel better.” 

“It's a risky operation,” Herah says after a moment, politely sidestepping the urge to point out it's outright suicidal. “What guarantee do we have that it will work?” 

Rilienus shrugs. 

“None whatsoever.” 

Further irritated by Rilienus nonchalance, Herah turns to Dorian. 

“Can he really do what he says?” She asks, purposely ignoring Rilienus' glare. 

Rilienus was not a staffsmith, last time Dorian saw him. Nevertheless, he gives Rilienus a side look and receives a short, sharp nod in reply. 

Dorian shrugs. 

“If he says he can,” he replies, voice perfectly level, “he can.” 

  


* * *

  


“So,” Bull says, sitting in their tent that night and watching Dorian methodically brush sand out of his hair, “Rilienus.” 

Dorian stops abruptly, lowering the brush and turning to stare at Bull with strangely haunted eyes. 

“No,” he replies, perfectly toneless. 

Bull blinks, then dips his head slowly in acknowledgment. 

“Duly noted,” he says, and shrugs in the face of one of Dorian's rare, sincere smiles. 

  


* * *

  


There are sulfur pits separating Coracavus and Griffon Keep from their side of the Approach, but Rilienus guides them through the set of tunnels carved into the mountainside, that the Venatori use to get around them. It's early enough it could still be considered night, as they set out, as prepared as they can be. 

Vivienne, Cassandra, Sera and Varric set out to capture Griffon Keep, either because they staunchly refused to get involved with blood magic or because they're not really willing to put up with more of Rilienus' vitriol. Or both. 

Herah doesn't judge, really, she swallows hard in the face of their loyalty, despite their misgivings, and promises herself to get drunk and fall to pieces as soon as it's all over and they're back behind the safety of Skyhold's walls. 

“What are you doing?” Blackwall barks demandingly, as Rilienus slits his palm open and buries it into the sand. 

“Sending word that we're coming,” Rilienus replies archly, pulling back his hand and staring as the blood mixed with sand turns into a small facsimile of a snake that slithers up and disappears into the sand. “We've been planning this for months. It'll get our allies in position.” He ignores the dubious looks as he stabs his staff into the sand and rolls his sleeves up his elbows. “Are you ready?” 

In the distance, Coracavus looms. 

Herah risks one last look around their friends. Bull looks solemn, but ready to take down whatever gets in their way. Blackwall's face is grim and his jaw is set, sword and shield already in hand. Solas has been immensely quiet since they left behind the Exalted Plains, but his grip on his staff is firm. It's not unusual for the apostate to go quiet with as much enthusiasm as he likes to go on a lecture, so Herah hasn't thought much about it. She nonetheless adds it to the list of things she's going to do after she survives this ridiculous plan, to check on Solas and learn what's on his mind. 

“Yes,” Herah says firmly, her own staff held tightly in her right hand. 

“Stand back,” Rilienus warns, and then digs his nails into his forearms, near the inside of his elbows, and then drags them sharply back down towards his wrists, tearing up the skin with disturbing ease. 

He lets his arms drop to his sides as blood gushes out the wounds freely, splattering on the ground at his feet into a puddle that soaks into the sand and darkens it into a sickly brown color. 

After perhaps a minute, Dorian clears his throat nervously. 

“Perhaps that's enough,” he says, because he's very good at math and if Rilienus has been really forging staves with his blood at the rate he implied, he can't really have all that much blood left in him. “Rilienus?” 

“When you've spent a decade mastering my craft,” he snarls, looking over his shoulder at Dorian with a sneer, “perhaps then I'll feel inclined to take your advice. In the meantime, shut the fuck up, Dorian. I know what I'm doing.” 

He raises his arms less than a minute later, however, the flow of blood stopping abruptly as his eyes glow with the telltale red of blood magic. Solas' eyes narrow as a loud humming noise echoes beneath Rilienus feet and Herah finds herself rubbing her tongue against her teeth, trying to wash off the sickly taste that suddenly settled in it. Only Dorian seems to not notice or care about the abrupt shift in the Fade around them, as Rilienus thrusts his arms forward and up, and the blood he'd shed flows upwards, glowing bright crimson. 

“Fucking blood magic shit,” Bull can't help but mutter viciously, spitting on the side, as he feels a shiver crawl viciously up and down his spine. “Goddamn Vint _crap_.” 

Rilienus ignores them and continues to guide the circling flow of blood around him, reaching out through it to the dozens upon dozens of pinpoints from staves he's ever made, most of them clustered around Coracavus, but also in Griffon's keep. And even further away, in the camps around the Approach and even a few further into the Wastes or in the Oasis. Blood magic is a delicate affair, too much power but all to easy to lose control of it. Rilienus concentrates on his breathing and creating a clear picture in his awareness of where each individual staff is, in relation to the others. It takes longer to create a web between them, linking them in clusters of similar elemental cores, but now that he's secured himself the support of the Inquisition, he can afford to take longer. It'll save him energy he'll need to actually participate in the fight. 

Under his careful eye, the blood begins to segment into tiny floating drops, one for each staff core, all joined together by thin, near invisible threads into a clusters of lightning, flare and frost. He runs the risk of the users noting their weapons behaving strangely, but that is so patently inconsequential at the moment, he sidesteps the thought entirely. 

“How are you not _dead?”_ Dorian mutters, horrified, as he studies the eerily beautiful arrangement of blood floating steadily above Rilienus' head, all the more horrifying because he understands what the hundred tiny little markers _mean_. 

“And give you the satisfaction?” Rilienus replies, smirking as the last cores fall into place. “Brace yourselves.” 

With one last sharp tug of his hands, he starts the chain reaction, overloading the cores with their elemental antithesis. The drops shatter as the reaction expands, but soon they're distracted from the view by the ground shaking and very real, very loud explosions shaking the fortress up ahead. 

“ _Go_ ,” Rilienus says, still holding onto the clusters as the explosions traveled from one node to the next. “Leave a lyrium and a regeneration potion, and I'll catch up with you. Take advantage of the chaos.” 

Herah and Bull are already charging up towards the fortress' entrance, while Solas beats Dorian to it, leaving the bottles on the sand. 

“You're a very fascinating creature,” Solas tells Rilienus, reluctantly impressed. 

Dorian chokes on a laugh as all Rilienus replies is: 

“That's nice. Kindly go fuck yourself.” 

  


* * *

  


“So, Dorian,” Blackwall says, after they've cleared out the first antechamber, which is full of ruins because apparently Rilienus' explosions are goddamn effective. “Rilienus, huh.” 

Dorian incinerates a screaming Venatori whose arm had been blown up but still seemed pretty determined to try and stab them with his remaining limb. 

“No,” he says cheerfully, as he refreshes the barriers around them all. “Not going to happen.” 

“I mean,” Blackwall stops as Bull drops a hand on his shoulder. 

“Trust me,” he says, “once he says no, he _means_ no.” 

They walk down the corridor and run into a group of darkspawn. 

“So, Blackwall,” Dorian says, viciously snide as he sets up a fire mire under their feet. “Darkspawn, huh.” 

“Jokes on you, kid,” the warden replies, leaping forward alongside Bull, “ _you_ just compared your mate with blight vermin.” 

Fighting darkspawn involves sturdier barriers and as much ice as the mages can muster, which makes Dorian reluctantly wish Vivienne had stuck around for a bit longer. Once they're done, Dorian looks suitably contrite as he gives Blackwall a solemn look. 

“You're absolutely correct, Warden Blackwall,” he says, but there's a tilt to his mouth that makes the Qunari in attendance wince in unison. “Remind me to send a formal letter of apology to the Archdemon. That level of mean-spirited comparison was uncalled for.” 

Herah squints at him a little. 

“Do you even _like_ the man?” 

Dorian ignores her and starts walking briskly down the newly opened doorway. 

  


* * *

  


There turns out to be closer to thirty Venatori mages and a handful of warriors guarding Griffon Keep. 

That suits Vivienne just fine, as she's suddenly in the mood to stretch her limbs properly. Cassandra is momentarily surprised to see her keeping up with her so easily, but the moment passes as they plow through the opposition uncontested. 

“Do you ever feel like the universe is laughing at you sometimes?” Sera asks Varric as they stand in the courtyard without much to shoot at. 

“All the time, buttercup,” Varric laughs, though he still doesn't take his hand from Bianca's trigger. “Why do you ask?” 

“Because we got to see something that _hot_ ,” Sera points out, nodding at Vivienne circling the last couple survivors with coldblooded determination. “But then I remember who's involved and I'm drier than the dunes out there.” 

Varric snorts, then chokes on it as Cassandra makes a disgusted noise behind him. 

“Maker, Seeker, don't _do_ that!” 

Cassandra smirks at him. 

“So you _do_ have a conscience, after all.” 

Varric sighs. He can only hope the Inquisitor's group is having a better time with their mission. 

  


* * *

  


Rilienus catches up to them in the record's room, unfortunately just in time to see Magister Galba slit the throat of a boy so young the standard Venatori robes looked like a parody on him. Dorian's companions are suitably horrified by the action, looking on with impotent rage at the crowd of maybe sixty Venatori preparing how best to retaliate the invasion. Rilienus hears the Inquisitor's scream, a muted echo of his own feelings on the matter, but then Galba – hateful, arrogant, greedy, _stupid_ Galba, who's always brandished his power without a care for the consequences, for others or himself – Galba summons a pair of fully fledged Fear demons. 

Rilienus would laugh, save the fact he does have a very keenly developed sense of self-preservation. He watches helplessly as, right on cue, Dorian steps forward, a white-knuckled grip on his staff. 

“I’m tired, Magister Galba,” he says, raising his voice so it may echo clearly across the room. “I’m _angry_. I’m covered in sand, blood, guts and demon _snot_.” Dorian seems to swell in size as the telltale glow of purple begins to gather in tiny whirlpools at his feet, “You insult my country. You insult my family. You insult my _friends_.” 

A faint hum begins to swell, as the air begins to saturate with the tell-tale sweet scent of Dorian’s favorite brand of magic. 

“And then you have the _fucking gall_ to summon Fear to fight me,” he snarls, and somehow the cluster of fear demons is no longer the most terrifying thing in attendance. “ _Fear_. To fight me.” 

“Well, _shit_ ,” Rilienus yelps as he abandons all pretense and simply drops to the ground and throws his arms over his head. 

The hum stops abruptly. 

And then Coracavus itself _shrieks_. 

  


* * *

  


“...is it supposed to do that?” Sera asks no one in particular, as they stand at the battlements of the Keep and watch the smoke rise from Coracavus. 

The ominous hum echoing in the back of their minds isn't doing them any favors either. 

“Blood magic,” Vivienne says spitefully, “ _always_ ends poorly.” 

  


* * *

  


Magister Galba opens his mouth to say something, but he never does. Rilienus feels more than sees the cleaving strike of fear so pure and potent he's fairly certain the Magister's heart explodes instantly in his chest, on recoil. 

Rilienus is also apparently the only person in the room that isn't surprised when the Fear demons turn on the Venatori, who are currently being subjected to enough fear to eclipse the rest of the world from their awareness. He despairs somewhat as he sees the Inquisition try to approach Dorian, as the purple glow escalates and threatens to swallow him whole. 

“Stay away from him!” Rilienus yells over the deafening roar of magic pushing at the veil almost to snapping point. Both Herah and Bull hesitate just barely long enough for Rilienus to gather his wits and reach them. “For fuck's sake, Pavus,” he roars over the screaming, loud enough he fears his throat tear a little, “this is first year shit!” 

“He's stands a good chance of tearing through the veil at this rate,” Solas says, in an deceptively bland tone. 

“What's going on?” The Inquisitor demands, grabbing Rilienus shoulder and getting punched in the chest on reflex for her efforts. 

“The same fucking thing that's always going on, as far as Dorian Pavus is concerned,” Rilienus says, throwing back the rest of the lyrium potion, because fuck rationing and caution at this point. “He's being _stupid_.” 

Rilienus takes a deep breath, grinds his teeth, and stomps his way up to Dorian, ignoring the fact the concentration of raw Fade energy is slowly and quite literally peeling the skin off his bones. He manages to reach out and wrap his hand around Dorian's face, covering his eyes, and the moment their skin touches, Rilienus feels the power begin to flow into him with the strength of a rampaging quillback. It very nearly consumes him before he can muster enough will to dig his staff into the ground. 

The shrieking quiets down considerably, as soon as he does, and the pressure begins to relent. 

Herah makes a sound of surprise as the light fades in intensity and she realizes she's being revitalized. By the look of confusion on her companion's faces, they too are feeling the spread of cool, soothing power course through their bodies, taking away the exhaustion and replacing it with near euphoria. 

“ _Kaffas_ ,” Dorian wheezes, as he comes back to his senses and immediately regrets it due to the pounding headache threatening to split his skull in half. “Rilienus-” 

“I _know_ ,” Rilienus snaps back, sliding his hand away from Dorian's face, down the back of his neck until it rests squarely in the middle of his back. “Sometime this age, Pavus, if you don't mind.” 

Dorian focuses the not inconsiderable weight of his will on mastering the energy howling all around him, and takes a fraction of a second to wince at the sheer sea of wisps and spirits pressing so hard on the Veil he's vaguely surprised a rift hasn't opened just yet. 

Then of course one does open, right behind the Inquisitor and the others, spitting out a roaring Pride demon as the main entertainment. 

Dorian doesn't turn, hand clenched on his staff as he begins to cast properly, trying to keep the Fear demons and the handful of surviving Venatori pinned across the room with as much lightning as he can muster. 

“If we die here,” Rilienus hisses, clutching Dorian's back with clawed fingers and wincing each the Pride demon laughs, “I'm going to _murder_ you.” 

“If we die here, I'm going to murder _myself_ ,” Dorian retorts with a slightly hysterical chuckle. 

Things start to look up as Dorian dispatches the last of the Fear demons and begins to unravel the very literal clusterfuck of spirits that he'd summoned. With Rilienus serving as his anchor, the task is considerably easier and he works as fast as he can, with no real regard for mana expenditure. Considering the very same clusterfuck is replenishing his stores faster than he can burn through them, that's not exactly a concern. Then of course the universe remembers that things cannot possibly go well, not even once, because the Pride demon uses one of its lightning whips to pull down one of the makeshift support beams holding the rickety ceiling in place. After the shockwaves of Dorian's little tantrum, that's more than enough to make rubble cave in over their heads. 

Dorian casts a barrier. 

Rilienus wraps an arm around his waist and fadesteps them across the room, away from the Pride demon and into a corridor that shakes ominously, but doesn't actually fall on their heads. Dorian and Rilienus stand there for a moment, panting as the tremor passes and the roar of falling debris ends. Then Dorian relaxes as he hears the telltale sound of a rift being snapped shut. 

“Is everyone alright?” Herah hollers from across the caved in room. 

“Well, at least this was never meant to be a secret mission,” Rilienus mutters dryly, then winces when Dorian summarily smacks him upside the head. 

“We're fine!” He yells back. “You?” 

“All good!” Herah replies, at the same time Bull snarls, “fuck demons!” 

“Tell her to take the corridor on the left and meet us in the southern entrance patio,” Rilienus says, with the look of someone who clearly thinks yelling is beneath them. 

Dorian rolls his eyes. 

“Inquisitor! Listen!” Dorian yells, glaring darkly at Rilienus all the while, “there's a corridor on your left! Follow it until you're outside! We'll meet you there!” Dorian waits until Herah yells back confirmation before he shoves Rilienus' shoulder spitefully. “There, happy?” 

“Ecstatic,” he deadpans, shaking his head. “Oh, and, Dorian?” 

Dorian looks up just in time for Rilienus to slam his fist straight into his face. He drops like a sack of bricks, while Rilienus winces and shakes his throbbing hand. 

“What the fuck-” 

“Shut up!” Rilienus snaps, glaring. “At what point did it seem like a good idea to open yourself up to spirits while standing in the ruins of a fucking prison crawling with darkspawn, at spitting distance from the site of a goddamn _blight_?” 

Dorian makes a small choking gesture with his hands, but doesn't actually reply. Instead, he rolls back to his feet with as much grace as he can muster and he starts stomping down the corridor. Rilienus makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat, but he follows nonetheless. 

That's when they run into the giant. 

  


* * *

  


“ _Fascinating_ ,” Solas says, after Herah confirms the plan with Dorian. 

Herah gives him a fairly judgmental look. 

“Really?” She demands, still unbalanced on the euphoria, although that's quickly turning into annoyance. “ _Really?_ You're seriously going to go there? Right now?” 

“They're a Necromancer Duet,” Solas replies, one eyebrow arched, as if that explains everything. “I did not know there were any left.” 

“They're a what now?” Blackwall asks, giving Solas a vaguely confused frown. 

Bull dutifully pretends to be surprised, if nothing else because he respects that Dorian's secrets are his own. 

“A Necromancer Duet,” Solas says, as they begin walking down the corridor. “I have seen them, walking in the Fade,” he adds, though it's obviously a superfluous clarification, considering his field of expertise. “Necromancy is a craft based solely on manipulating spirits, most famously to raise the dead, though they also possess the skills required to command spirits to take control of corpses, and to use those same spirits to manipulate the emotions of those they target. The practice is still reasonably respected in Cassandra's homeland. But of course, the Imperium would not be content with doing things like everyone else.” 

“This is going to involve demons, isn't it,” Bull deadpans, giving Solas a wary look. 

Solas offers only a small shrug in reply. 

“Not exactly, though I imagine, at least not on purpose,” he says, raising his eyes to study the faded decorations around the corridor. “Tevinter Necromancers developped an entirely separate craft to be practiced in tandem, with a partner. Their control of spirits is significantly stronger as is their affinity to manipulate elemental magic, given they are not limited by their own talent or endurance. It is almost... symbiotic, from what I understand, and exponential. Two pieces of a whole, where the whole is more than the sum of its parts.” He offers a dry snort and completely misses the concerned look Herah sneaks in Bull's general direction. “Which might in turn explain why Dorian is so concerned with this Venatori: if he's his partner, then they must share an uniquely profound bond.” 

  


* * *

  


“Well,” Rilienus says, after the prerequisite fifteen second pause to process exactly what just happened. “That was a thing. Which just happened. Yes.” 

“Please, shut up,” Dorian hisses, and it is surprisingly well-enunciated, considering how tightly he’s clenching his teeth. 

“You have…” Rilienus goes on, certainly not shutting up, and makes a vague waving motion over his own face. “You know… All over your…” 

“I’m _well aware_ of the fact, thank you,” Dorian replies, still hissing. 

A thick glob of green snot slides down the tip of Dorian’s staff and splashes noisily onto the ground. 

“Do you want me to-” 

“Please,” Dorian interrupts, staring intently at the nearest wall in an extreme display of self-control. “Just… _Stop. Helping._ ” 

“This isn’t my fault, Dorian,” Rilienus snaps, clutching his staff close to his chest and glowering somewhat. Given he still looks three fourths dead and nowhere near as healthy as the frozen corpses Dorian likes to raise for Bull to fight against, it’s not particularly impressive. “You’re carrying a fire-cored staff, how the hell was I supposed to know you were going to go for _lightning_ too!” 

The door to the main hallway bursts open before Dorian can snarl a reply, but (un)fortunately, it turns out to be the Inquisitor’s group that arrives, rather than some more hapless Venatori for Dorian to vent out his frustrations on. 

“ _Holy shit_ ,” Adaar blurts out, taking in the freshly applied coat of blood, gore and… various other off-color goops all around the courtyard, not to mention the half-crushed but still somewhat recognizable head of a giant right before her feet, “ _what the fuck_ did you guys do to that poor giant?” 

Something inside Dorian, something thin and tense and trembling, it _snaps_. 

He throws down his staff on the ground and then squats down, his arms thrown over his head. 

And then he just… _screams_. 

“Do you want me to hit you with a stick?” Bull offers, bravely approaching the ball of incandescent frustration that once upon a time used to be Dorian Pavus. “Like, an actual stick? Because that helps, sometimes.” 

“Give him a moment,” Rilienus says blandly, “his tantrums never last long.” 

He sidesteps the fireball aimed at his head, without even blinking. 

“Let's go,” Dorian says brightly, eminently forced, but given the twitch of half his face, no one felt inclined to point it out. “The sooner we find Vitellius, the sooner this is over, the sooner I can get drunk and pretend this day never happened at all.” 

“The good news is that there's literally only one place for him to be,” Rilienus points out, almost helpfully, except for his tone, which would certainly be considered strong provocation for murder, “and if all goes according to plan-” 

“What part of this goddamn expedition has gone even remotely according to plan!” Dorian cries out, all but vibrating in frustration. 

“Vyrantium will be there with him,” Rilienus finishes, completely ignoring Dorian's outburst. 

  


* * *

  


Primus Vitellius is exactly where Rilienus suspects he is, locked up behind a sealed door – which fizzles out pathetically under the combined efforts of the Inquisitor and the increasingly angrier Tevinters – in a spacious hall symmetrical to the one that had been destroyed during the demon fight. Herah is not sure what she was expecting, but Vitellius is hardly it. There's a cluster of maybe sixty mages, most of them teenagers by the look of it, and in the middle of it, an old, withered man with the look of a coward in his eyes. 

“You know what this is!” Vitellius snaps, raising his hand to show a handful of phylacteries. “You know what I can do!” 

“You don't even know who they belong to,” Rilienus retorts snidely, sneering in the face of Vitellius' panic. His expression falls slightly, as Vitellius points his staff at them. 

“I don't need to know that,” he says, gaining arrogance, “I know you, Laertes. You wouldn't risk it.” 

“Yeah, but _I_ would,” Dorian points out bluntly, eyebrows arched tauntingly as he steps further into the room. “Though you wouldn't _make_ me do that, now, would you?” He smiles the moment he sees recognition flash in the old man's eyes. “Hello, Primus, remember me?” 

Bull notices the way Rilienus drags his palm down the handle of his staff, slicing it open. He looks over at the others, but finds them staring down the panicking mage, seemingly intent to let Dorian and Rilienus wrap up the situation. His eyes slide back to Rilienus, who flashes him a small sneer for his efforts. 

“I will do it!” Vitellius shrieks, shaking the phylacteries threateningly. “I will do it, Pavus. Don't think I-” 

If Bull hadn't been watching it happen, he would have missed it. Rilienus' staff seemingly melts on command, before lashing out at Vitellius' wrist. Bull's eye catches the glimpse of a chain, before the blur settles and Rilienus is standing there, catching the amputated hand still holding the phylacteries, his grip on his staff nonchalant and borderline casual. 

“You'll do what, exactly?” Rilienus asks, eyebrows arched, as the pain finally registers and Vitellus starts howling, dropping his staff to hold onto his bloody wrist. 

He drops the phylacteries and they ignite as they fall, reduced to ash by the time they hit the ground. 

“You are a disgrace upon Vyrantium,” Dorian says viciously, fadestepping forward and leaping once close enough, to stab the man with the top rather than the bottom of his staff. 

“Oh, for fuck's sake,” Rilienus mutters, as Dorian overloads the core of the staff and causes an explosion. "Must you?" 

“Dorian!” 

Rilienus raises an arm to keep the Inquisition from moving in, giving them a warning glare. When the smoke clears, Dorian is standing there, panting and slightly signed, but perfectly alive and mostly well. There's a moment of silence, as the mages further back the hall remain motionless, waiting to see what will happen next. Then one of the masked ones steps forward, throwing a fireball at Dorian. 

“Vyrantium!” Snarls the girl that fadestepped in, raising a barrier before the attack could hit. “Defend your Primus!” 

As yet another battle erupts, Bull almost misses the small, satisfied smile on Rilienus' face, since he's so distracted by the awe adorning Dorian's. Although to call it a battle would imply it would last longer than it does; Vyrantium mages, free of the threat of the phylacteries, make short work of the handful of Venatori in their wake. 

“Let them,” Rilienus tells Herah, standing between her and the carnage, effectively stopping them from interfering. “It's its own kind of medicine, for the horrors they've endured.” 

  


* * *

  


As the fighting winds down, Rilienus glares reprovingly when more than one staff points threateningly at the Qunari, Solas and Blackwall. Most of them are pointed at Bull, who's tried to step closer to Dorian. Dorian himself is now sitting on the floor, the strain of the day's misadventures fully catching up to him, though he's not quite sure what to say when he realizes there's a veritable wall of mages between him and his companions. 

“Don't be rude,” Rilienus says, which causes Dorian to choke on a laugh and Herah to snort uncharitably at the irony, “you owe the Inquisition a great debt. Let it not be said that Vyrantium is _ungrateful_.” 

It takes another glare for the staves to be lowered. Dorian gives Bull a tired smirk. 

“I'm afraid you're going to have to carry me,” he says wryly, “I don't think I can rightly walk anymore.” 

“We're done, right?” Herah asks Rilienus as Bull carefully picks up Dorian up, looking forward to take a page of Dorian's book and pretend this wretched day never happened in the first place. 

“Almost,” Rilienus replies with a shrug. He squints at her slightly. “Are you the sort that enjoys heads in platters, or live prisoners?” 

Herah stares at him. 

“...live prisoners?” She responds, tentative, and feels another flash of irritation at Rilienus' near preternatural ability to keep her off balance. 

“You heard the Inquisitor,” Rilienus barks sharply at the Vyrantium mages. “Bring her Servis in chains, and make damn sure to clean up as much filth as you can, before heading back to Griffon Keep.” There was a moment of silence, before Rilienus glared. _“Why are you still here?”_

“Can't say I'd ever seen a stampede of mages before,” Blackwall says, in an apt description of the Vyrantium mages briskly emptying the hall and supposedly going off to complete their orders. 

He shrugs awkwardly as Rilienus' murderous glare is transferred to him. 

“They called you Primus,” Solas tells Dorian, looking vaguely amused in that smug Solas way that never failed to make Dorian twitchy. “Is that official?” 

Dorian stares at him for a moment, before closing his eyes and groaning in despair. 

“Laertes, I'm going to _murder_ you!” 

  


* * *

  


“...do I want to know why you had a gaggle of kids hidden away in a secret room behind a blood seal?” Herah asks tiredly, as said gaggle of kids flocks around Rilienus and clings to his robes tenaciously. 

Rilienus gives her a long, hard look. 

“I wasn't meant to make the staves with my own blood,” he says, surprisingly unbothered by the tiny hands clutching desperately at his. He gives Herah a pointed look. “Galba and Vitellius considered Vyrantium's youngest members a waste of resources and instructed me to turn them into something _useful_.” 

Herah stares and stares, and in her mind she argues the stupidity of allowing herself to hate men who she knew had already paid with their lives for their crimes. But still, none of the kids Rilienus had sequestered away were older than _ten_. 

“And you've been doing this,” Herah says, slightly hoarse, “ _living_ like this, since Redcliff fell.” 

Which had been _months_ ago, by now. 

Rilienus offers her a small shrug and the sliver of a smile, not a smirk. 

“In Vyrantium we pride ourselves on two things, Inquisitor,” he says, and Herah realizes she no longer needs Dorian to vouch for him, despite how willfully unpleasant he seems to enjoy being, “we endure, and we look after our own.” 

  


* * *

  


Dorian doesn't rightly remember the trek back into Griffon Keep, or the two days after that, which he spends passed out on a makeshift bed. By the time he wakes up, the Inquisition scouts have moved into the Keep, as have the survivors from Vyrantium. Which had confessed to the Inquisitor every single thing they'd done under Venatori control, Bull tells him as he sits with him to eat, under penalty of Rilienus' glare. Dorian isn't exactly sure what Rilienus is planing to do, aiming to gain the Inquisition's good will like that. He knows for a fact he'll get it, because despite it all, Dorian knows Rilienus is fundamentally a good person, deep down. _...really, really deep down_. And Herah is too much of a good judge of character to not realize it, for all she might not have the skill required to wrangle with Rilienus' less than stellar personality. Herah herself is away, completing the mission they were actually meant to complete in the first place, to meet with Hawke and his Warden friend. 

Bull also asked if Dorian wanted to see Rilienus, at which point Dorian cackled unrepentantly and told him that if he never had to see his ugly mug ever again, it would be too soon. Bull seemed confused about that, but Dorian hadn't pressed it. He just doesn't feel comfortable having that kind of conversation with Bull away from their little training grounds near the ruins of Haven. Hopefully, all the awkward, knotted messes between them can wait until they get back. 

Dorian spends most of the day walking around the Keep, at least until the stares and the whispers from the Vyrantium mages – though it would be better to say, the Vyrantium kids, since they look the part without Venatori hoods hiding their faces – grow incessant enough that he can feel the beginnings of a headache pounding between his temples. He retreats back to his quarters, then. 

“You’re not him.” 

For a moment, Dorian expects to find Cole sitting on his bed. The fact that it’s Rilienus sprawled on it like he owns damn thing is not actually better. 

“Oh, get out of here,” Dorian groans, dropping himself on the nearest chair. “I haven’t the time, the energy or the will, Rilienus.” 

“You never do,” he replies, shrugging as he folds his arms behind his head, getting comfortable. “My life would be considerably easier if you did, for once.” 

The moment stretches, painful and understated, and Dorian keeps the words firmly behind his teeth, for fear of what they might unleash. Then Rilienus sighs, folding up a leg and hooking his other knee on it, foot twitching irritably in exasperation. 

“You’re not him,” he repeats, voice not particularly kind, “not in any way that actually matters. Kindly stop wallowing in angst about such nonsense.” 

“How can you-” 

“Because I knew him better than you did,” Rilienus snaps bitterly, lips twisting into a sneer as he glares at the ceiling. His eyes slide sideways to give Dorian a particularly obnoxious smirk. “And I happen to know you better than you’d like.” 

“This conversation is doing nothing to contradict my prior suspicions that I should have killed you when I had the chance,” Dorian mutters with a scoff, lips twisted in annoyance. 

“But you didn’t,” Rilienus points out, smirk widening slightly. 

“But I didn’t,” Dorian agrees with a sigh. “And now here we are.” 

“If it makes you feel any better,” Rilienus says after a moment, sitting up with his spine bowed and his arms resting on his folded knees, “I promise I’ll kill you, if you ever do become Arcturus.” Dorian cracks a laugh at that, helpless and brittle and bends over to bury his face in his hands. “But in the meantime,” Rilienus goes on, “so long as you keep your claws off kids too young to know how to say no, we’re good, Pavus.” 

“We’ve never been even anything _remotely_ approaching that notion,” Dorian hisses back, hoping the sound stuck in his throat is laughter, rather than tears. 

Rilienus purses his lips, rather than snap back another unwanted witticism. 

“Remember Ravena?” Rilienus asks, after a moment, and despite the beard and the hair, for a moment there, the lighting helps Dorian see not the man he’s met again, but the boy he once knew. Dorian shudders. “We were good, in Ravena.” 

“Please don’t,” Dorian whispers, dragging a hand through his hair. 

Ravena had been the last time he’d willingly had sex sober… before the Iron Bull convinced him otherwise. 

“I wasn’t fair to you, then,” Rilienus admits, frowning but nonetheless speaking the words clearly, without hesitation. “I wasn’t fair to… anyone, really. But that was just my shite lot in life. I owe you, my freedom and a good chunk of the less shitty bits of my life, right now. We’re _good_ , Dorian.” 

“Are we, really?” Dorian says, desperate for a segue into vitriol. He’s never been good at handling a Rilienus without his vitriol, and the years haven’t made it easier. “Because you just threatened to kill me.” 

“And under the circumstances,” Rilienus retorts, “you would thank me for it.” 

“You’re an impossible ghoul,” Dorian snarls back, unfolding violently from the chair and fisting his hands tightly, to try and keep them from shaking. “You’re a vicious, lying, murderous bastard, Rilienus.” 

Rilienus stands from the bed, rubbing in the fact he must look down to catch Dorian’s eye and spreads his arms wide with a shrug. 

“I know,” he says, and chokes on a laugh when Dorian throws himself at him, arms clawing at his back to hold him tight. 

“I missed you, you ill bred disaster,” Dorian buries the words into his shoulder, closing his eyes tight to keep the tears back and preserve the last modicum of dignity he has left. 

“I _know_ ,” Rilienus replies, rather than, _I missed you too_ , because then he wouldn’t be the absolute asshole Dorian knows him to be. 

  


* * *

  


Dorian has a sinking, terrible feeling when he realizes no one questions Rilienus presence in the room, as the Inquisitor prepares to share her findings. He's not entirely sure he wants to know, but he completely forgets about that thought as Herah outlines exactly what they'd seen and learned in their meeting with Hawke. 

“Shit,” Bull says, the first one to break the dark, contemplative silence around. “Fucking demons.” 

“Wait,” Rilienus says, blinking slowly as he stares around the room and the morose, scowling faces in it, “you didn't _know_?” When he finds himself subject to glares and suspicious squints, he makes sure to roll his eyes with a flourish. “Why the fuck do you think the Venatori settled in Coracavus? It was built on top of an old entrance to the Deep Roads. It was meant to serve as a base of operations, yes, but ultimately the plan was to dig open the tunnels and flood the Western Approach with enough darkspawn to push the Wardens into agreeing with Erimond.” 

There is a long, pregnant pause. 

“And you waited this long to tell us this,” Dorian says, enunciating clearly, “because...” 

Rilienus shrugs. 

“You didn't _ask_ me.” 

Bull barely manages to restrain Dorian before he throws himself at Rilienus, hands curled into claws and aimed at his eyes. 

“ _ **Rilienus!**_ ” 

Blackwall ignores the sudden burst of pandemonium to lean in and nudge Solas' shoulder. 

“ _Uniquely profound bond_ , huh?” 

Solas glares, pretending very hard there's not a hint of heat over his nose. 

“Shut. Up.” 

  


* * *

  



	6. growing pains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because things get better before they get worse, also feelings are dumb so it's best to ignore them. (That's nope, two for the price of one, even!)

  


* * *

  


_vi. growing pains_

  


* * *

  


The makeshift war room in the Keep is dreadfully silent as Rilienus finishes a detailed, deadpan report of the Venatori comings and goings around the Approach, the Oasis and the Wastes. Then he stands up, brushes off dust from his clothes and saunters away without even a perfunctory _by your leave_. The Inquisition doesn't seem to notice, not even the purposefully slammed door, they're too busy staring at the maps Rilienus scrawled on and trying to piece together the scope of his report. 

It's bad. 

It's really, really bad. To clean up all that mess will require men and resources which the Inquisition doesn't have just yet, and even if they did, that they couldn't easily move, not with Orlais still sunk neck-deep into a ridiculous civil war. 

“Well,” Varric says, breaking the silence, “shit.” 

“Yeah,” Blackwall sighs, rubbing a hand over his forehead, as if he could smooth out the wrinkles there, “suddenly the victory at Coracavus feels a lot less... victorious.” 

“Can we trust this to be accurate, though?” Vivienne asks, not quite scowling, but definitely giving the room an unpleasant look. “A report from a confessed Venatori blood mage?” 

Dorian barks a shrill, awkward laugh. 

“Oh, you can trust Rilienus to deliver bad news,” he says, running a hand through his hair and wincing slightly as he does. Blowing up his staff at close range left him with some rather unpleasant wounds that were healed magically, but still smarted somewhat. Still, he doesn't regret the satisfaction of seeing Vitellius' face the second he realized he was dead. “It's when he starts being cheery that you should definitely run for the hills.” 

“So we're fucked, yeah?” Sera asks, frowning at the maps and then blinking around the table. “I mean, it's better to know you're fucked from the get-go, than finding out mid-way. But still.” She gives Herah a shrewd look. “Didn't really think it could get worse than gaping hole in the sky, frankly.” 

“We must do something about this,” Cassandra says, with the slightly awkward tones of someone who's dead certain of what they're saying... but has no clue how to go about making it happen. 

Bull snorts. 

“Yeah,” he says as he leans his arms on the table, which creaks a little under his weight, “but we're gonna need something a bit more specific than _something_.” He looks over at the Inquisitor with a wry smirk. “Boss?” 

Herah is staring at the map with a resigned look on her face. The same one she wore when she ran into the Shokrakars after the dreadnought incident and she realized what she was facing was inevitable. She lets out a loud, pained sigh. 

“Well, it's obvious, really,” she says, raising her eyes to look at each member of her Inner Circle in the eye as she delivers her latest insane declaration. “I'll just have to stop the civil war in Orlais, first of all.” 

Varric splutters gloriously as Bull, Sera and Blackwall crack up laughing. Cassandra looks constipated while Vivienne and Dorian look at her with equally suspicious squints, clearly trying to find the joke. There's no joke there, Herah knows, that's why the punchline is so desperately perfect. 

Solas offers her a very dry snort. 

“Oh,” he says, giving her a look that, if she didn't know any better, she'd classify as teasing, “is _that_ all?” 

  


* * *

  


Herah almost doesn't recognize Rilienus when she runs into him, turning down a corridor. Without the beard and with his hair clean, she supposes she understands what Dorian meant when he said he was as vicious as he was pretty. Clean-shaven, he doesn't look that old, at least if one doesn't pay much attention to his eyes. 

“Inquisitor,” he says, in that same bland, vaguely insulting tone of his that still manages to make Herah twitch somewhat. “A word, if you please?” 

She really doesn't, honestly, but she's come to realize that the whole point of being the Inquisitor is doing what she doesn't please approximately nine out of ten times. She nods and follows him to one of the large, empty storage rooms beneath the keep – it wasn't empty when they arrived, but one sharp glare from Rilienus has the two men there scurrying away like mice. 

“I have... spoken with the Circle,” he says, without preamble. “You must understand this is a delicate situation. I have not spoken with Dorian about this, despite the fact he is meant to be, by virtue of his rather dramatic dispatching of our previous Primus, the final voice of all decisions pertaining Vyrantium. But I know Dorian, and he is an idealistic idiot without an ounce of understanding of how politics work.” He pauses, though not because he's intimidated by her glare. He smiles thinly, mockingly, as if remembering something Herah is not privy to. “Or rather, he has an excellent understanding of how politics work, just a deep seated disdain of playing according to their rules.” 

That, Herah can't deny. 

“You want me to do something, don't you?” She sighs, but then sobers up when she realizes that Rilienus isn't smirking. 

If she didn't know any better, she'd say he looks downright sad. 

“We have nowhere to go,” he says, flatly, as carefully devoid of emotion as he can, “I have seventy four mages under my care, twenty of them younger than fifteen. We have no resources and no way to go home that wouldn't involve the potential death of a good deal of them, or run the risk to be captured by the Venatori again.” He swallows back. “And even if I did, they don't want to go back. Because the Primus who saved them won't be going with them, and they're not done paying back Corypheus for what he's done to them. They want to stay and they want to aid your war against the Elder One. But,” he adds, when he sees her open her mouth to reply, offering the same thin lipped smile he gave her, when she found out about the children, “they understand they are not wanted. You have enough mages in your forces, and the mages you do have did not commit the attrocities we did.” 

“That's not entirely true,” Herah says, somber as she remembers the long, drawn out argument with Cullen and his templars about exactly that, “the mages were at war with the templars, before they joined us. I don't need to tell you of all people that, in war, all sides commit atrocities. But the Inquisition opened itself to them and gave them a new purpose. Protection in exchange for new responsibilities. It has worked... well enough.” 

“Your mages are Southern,” Rilienus retorts, and turns his back on her, staring at the faded paint on the walls. “Your mages were bred for cages, treated like cattle and hounded by templars. We're Tevinter. We're proud and we do not bow. There's nineteen future seats of the Magisterium under my care right now, Inquisitor, and not a single one of them is meek or humble or willing to be stepped on again. We want to fight Corypheus, we want to fight him more than anyone else except perhaps yourself. And even then, he only ruined your life, he didn't _run_ it for you. But we're Tevinter, and we know the South has no love for us. You might want to take us in, but your Inquisition will not stand for it. There will be whispers, and concerns, and before you know it, the only politically wise thing to do will be to send us away. Because we're Tevinter, and we're not trustworthy.” 

“You don't know that,” she says, well aware that they're both talking like it's a given thing that she will take them in, and not really annoyed by it because... well, what else is she supposed to do? If Rilienus weren't such an asshole about it, she would be glad to deal with someone who enjoys cutting to the heart of the matter, without preamble. 

But then, she supposes, he wouldn't be Rilienus. 

“We have decided,” he says, ignoring her reply, “that we will _make_ ourselves trustworthy.” He turns to look at her, formidable and determined, and the comparison to a dragon comes easy to her again. “We are willing to bind ourselves in service to the Inquisition. We'll craft the phylacteries again.” 

Herah stares, feeling color drain from her face. 

“No.” 

Rilienus steps closer and Herah finds herself stepping back. He looks determined. 

“No one will question our loyalty to your cause,” he says, and if he were offering anything other than enslaving his Circle to her, Herah would feel compelled to agree with him, just going by his tone. “No one will question your judgment or think you foolish for using us to your advantage. No one will leave you, for this.” 

Herah snarls. 

“No.” She raises a hand, to keep Rilienus quiet. “No, Rilienus. We're not doing that.” She bares her teeth at him. “If Vyrantium wants to join the Inquisition, it will. And you will be subject to the exact same responsibilities and privileges afforded to the Southern mages. And if you want to leave at any point, you will, and that'll be it. And if anyone ever has any problem with you being here, you send them to me, and I'll deal with it. But there will be no fucking phylacteries and if you or anyone else ever brings it up again, _I will lose my temper._ ” She glares down at him, abusing her height to do so. “Are we clear?” 

Rilienus smirks and turns to the side. 

“Are we?” He asks, turning to the side, and Herah curses under her breath as she sees the illusion fall and a crowd of shrewd, narrowed eyes pinning her in place. 

“Really?” She asks Rilienus, mouth twitching in annoyance. 

“Well, the question never was whether you'll trust us or not,” Rilienus replies with a shrug and a terribly smug smirk, “the real question was whether we can trust _you_ , instead.” 

Herah sighs and laughs, and refuses to admit just how tired she really feels. 

  


* * *

  


Morning comes after very little sleep for the Inquisition forces huddled away behind the sturdy walls of Griffon Keep. They keep expecting an attack – a retribution or an ambush or a lash out from the surviving Venatori or the other groups they now know are in league with them – because that's what happens after you blow up the enemy's stronghold and seize the secondary base for yourself. The apprehension sits behind the knowledge that the Inquisition really doesn't have enough forces to defend the Keep. There's the Vyrantium mages, who've proven their abilities by delivering Crassius Servis, regional leader of the Venatori, wrapped up in chains; but they're not sworn to the Inquisition, and the few forces they have consider this the cornerstone of trust. Besides, they're Tevinter and lead by a former Venatori blood mage, so no one is in a hurry to depend on them. There's the Inquisitor and the prestigious Inner Circle, the elite forces of the Inquisition itself, but even so, they're still just nine people against whatever comes crawling at them. The Inquisition forces are mostly scouts, and while scouts are willing to fight if necessary, that's not what they're good for. 

So it is perfectly understandable why the mood in the Keep is borderline panicked, as scout Harding drags the Inquisitor out of her makeshift bed and takes her to the uppermost courtyard in the Keep, where the Inquisition banners are tentatively flying... 

...and where this fine morning a magical construct shaped like a raptor bird of some kind and made entirely of what appears to be black blood, has decided to roost. 

Herah can feel the magic pulsing in the air around the damn thing, but she decides against her first instinct and doesn't throw a fireball at it to test what happens. It isn't, after all, attacking. She calls for the rest of her Inner Circle, who seem all rather baffled by the apparition – the thing is the size of _Bull_ , it's not exactly hard to miss – all except Dorian, who takes one good look at the thing and goes pale like he's seen a ghost. He swoons – he actually swoons, Herah hadn't thought that was actually a thing that happened – and manages to stay upright only by clinging to Bull's arm. 

“Don't touch it,” he croaks, voice not quite cracking as he gathers aplomb to stand up on his own. “Just... just send everybody else downstairs and don't... don't touch it. Don't attack it. For fuck's sake, don't even _look_ at it, if you can.” He swallows hard. “I'll be right back.” 

Herah watches him go as she contemplates the fact this might be the very first time she's seen Dorian Pavus truly afraid of something... and how much she's not looking forward to dealing with whatever that something turns out to be. 

“Today's just getting better and better, huh,” Varric tells no one in particular, though Herah's sure he's just hounding for another of Cassandra's disgusted tones. 

  


* * *

  


Dorian finds Rilienus asleep, tucked in the doorway leading to the room the Vyrantium kids have taken for themselves. It doesn't seem very comfortable, to Dorian's mind, to cram nearly eighty people into a tiny room, but apparently sleeping in close quarters is something the former Venatori are quite used to. Were he not in the middle of a spectacular panic attack, Dorian reckons he'd be more interested in untangling the mystery behind Vyrantium and where exactly do they stand, both as individuals and as a group. Given that he's quite certain he's about to break down into hysterical giggling at the moment, Dorian promises himself to reach out to the Circle later, and instead unceremoniously grabs Rilienus by the front of his robes. 

Rilienus makes to kick and punch on reflex, at least until he registers Dorian's voice hissing in his face. 

“The Divine's personal augur is in the upper courtyard,” Dorian says, shaking Rilienus viciously to make his point. “ _Why_ is the Divine's personal augur in the upper courtyard, Rilienus?” 

Because Rilienus is... well, Rilienus, and he can't make things easy for Dorian, ever, he doesn't have the rational reaction to the situation. His eyes don't widen and he doesn't panic, for which Dorian decides to hate him viciously, if and only they survive the current mess they're in. Instead, Rilienus shoves Dorian off his person, brushes dirt off his clothes and then offers the most indolent shrug Dorian has ever been subjected to. 

“That actually took longer than I expected,” Rilienus says, which Dorian wants to scream is not an actual explanation, but then Rilienus turns and disappears into the Vyrantium room and comes back out a moment later with the small boy he'd claimed was his brother in his arms. 

Dorian was there when he delivered that particular bit of lying but had refrained from pointing it out because... well, because Rilienus _lies_. That's what he does. And Dorian knows better than to want his truths. He's slightly regretting that show of good will, however, more so when a very dark and terrible thought begins to form in his head. 

“You're not _a_ staffsmith,” he says, as they walk up the stairs back to the courtyard, with the sickening weight of realization crusting around his gut and dragging it down to his knees, “you're _the_ staffsmith, aren't you?” 

“After you left Vyrantium,” Rilienus replies, tucking the boy's head against his shoulder, “I saw no reason not do the same. You do not have a monopoly on interesting life stories, Dorian. I just don't share your proclivity to loudly proclaim yours.” 

The augur looks no less terrifying a second time around, though Dorian notices with increasing dread that the boy in Rilienus' arms perks up considerably at the sight of it. 

“I'm going to _kill_ you,” Dorian mutters in despair, as they walk back into the courtyard and a terrible thought makes itself at home in his head. 

Rilienus offers a ghost of a smirk. 

“I do believe you will have to fight Most Holy for the privilege,” he says, walking past the Inquisitor at a brisk, confident pace. “He's called dibs on that one.” 

“Rilienus,” Herah says testily, squinting at him warily, though not suspiciously. She's fairly certain Rilienus is not, in fact, evil, but while she trusts him not to sell her over to Corypheus, she doesn't trust him to be anything other than what he's shown himself to be: a petty, vicious bastard who delights in being difficult, just because he can. “What is that thing?” 

“The Divine's... the _Black_ Divine's personal augur,” he says, walking up to the looming creature, boy firmly held in one arm. “Whom I hope you're quite ready to meet,” he adds, as he raises his free hand, meekly offering it to the beast. There's a swipe of claws and a spray of blood, which Rilienus ignores stoically. “Since you don't have much of a choice, now.” 

Herah ignores the ripples of unease around her as Rilienus' blood glows red and the bird spreads its wings wide, baring its chest. The strange liquid the creature is made of parts, revealing a large crystal in its breast, one that glows bright white and projects the image of a very unamused looking man. 

And because things just aren't weird enough just yet, Herah thinks grumpily, both Rilienus and Dorian kneel down at the sight. 

Herah doesn't think she's ever seen Dorian kneel before anyone, ever. 

“You honor us with your attention, Most Holy,” Rilienus says, without an ounce of irony, as he releases the boy, so he can kneel down by his side, “how may we serve?” 

The man, the Divine, Herah supposes, with a tiny hysterical curl of laughter desperately trying to claw its way from her throat, remains where he is, staring at them intently. The moment stretches painfully long, the silence uncomfortable and threatening. Herah takes the time to study the Divine, to give herself something to do that might not be as terrible as bursting out into panicked laughter. He looks old, but not decrepid, and there's a certain cunning slyness to his eyes that makes her think of an old lion, confident in his power and his place in the world. 

“Your choice in company remains... interesting, Brother Laertes,” the Divine says finally, voice even and almost pleasant. His eyes turn to Herah, meeting hers straight on, and she wonders if she should bow her head, but figures it's ultimately too late for that, now. “Inquisitor Adaar, is it? Has Rilienus explained what you've done?” 

“I have not,” Rilienus says, before Herah can come up with a suitable reply. “It is not my place to speak on your behalf, Your Holiness.” 

“No, it's not,” the Divine says, nodding and not taking his eyes off Herah. “Now be quiet, Rilienus. I wish to hear what the ox has to say for herself. If she speaks at all, that is.” 

Herah swallows hard. 

“I do,” she says, perhaps a tad more forcefully than it's wise, considering the small sound of despair Dorian makes, somewhere behind her. Herah tilts her head in acknowledgement, but not reverent. Like she would meeting another Shokrakar. “Most Holy.” 

The Divine's eyes narrow slightly, but he's silent again for a moment. 

“Then by all means, do speak,” the Divine says, sneering ever so slightly, “I'm afraid my reach extends only as far as the Imperium does,” he adds, which makes Herah think of Tal-Shokrakar and her web of ears and eyes all across Thedas. She resists the urge to shudder. “All I have are rumors, you understand, but perhaps you could be persuaded to sharing more details about the recent fall of Coracavus.” 

Despite knowing it'd be pointless, Herah tries nonetheless to catch Rilienus' eye, to try and see what she should or shouldn't say. Rilienus remains difficult and obnoxious, staring down intently at the floor. 

“There were Venatori in Coracavus,” Herah says instead, trying to hide how unsure she feels, “and now they're dead.” 

“Yes,” the Divine says after a moment, though something changes in his eyes and Herah gets the strangest notion, that he's pleased by her reply. “They are. I understand the Circle of Vyrantium was in Coracavus as well,” he adds, seemingly unfazed. “Are they dead as well?” 

Herah narrows her eyes. 

“No,” she says, “not all of them. The survivors are in the Keep here, with us.” 

“Why?” The surprise must have shown on her face, despite her best attempts to hide it, because the Divine continues, with a spiteful little twist to his tone: “The Circle of Vyrantium joined the Venatori. They abandoned their place in Tevinter and marched South to join Corypheus' army. Why, I believe Brother Laertes, in his role as Senior Enchanter, had a very strong say in that matter. Why are they alive, then, when their Venatori brethren rot in Coracavus' ruins?” 

Herah thinks of the dirty, wide-eyed children crawling out of Rilienus' hideout in Coracavus, faces pale and bodies starved until the bones can be seen through their skin. She thinks of the older Vyrantium mages, throwing themselves in defense of Dorian at a moment's notice, and then chasing down all the remnants of Venatori they could find, before presenting her with a chained, hissing and spitting mage as an offering for peace. Vyrantium endures, Rilienus told her, and it looks after its own. 

She realizes she believes him, however unwise that might be. 

“Because I do not begrudge Vyrantium the terrible choices it had to make, to survive,” she says, tilting her chin up defiantly. “And anyone who does so, Your Holiness, is a fool who doesn't understand the meaning of war.” 

For a moment, no one speaks. Herah holds onto her ground, refusing to back down as the mirage of the Divine stares her down, judging her for her impertinence, perhaps. But she's been judged and found wanting, every step of the way, since she crawled out of the Fade with the light in her hand threatening to devour her whole. Herah does not cower, and she refuses to take the words back. 

“Am I understanding correctly?” The Divine asks, arching an eyebrow in calculated surprise. “The survivors of Vyrantium are not your prisoners, then?” 

“No, Most Holy,” Herah replies, narrowing her eyes at him challengingly, “they are not.” 

“So should I command them to return to Tevinter, where they rightfully belong, you will let them go.” 

“I would advice against it,” Herah says, swallowing hard, “were you to suggest something so unwise, Most Holy.” 

“And whyever would I care for the advice of a heretic ox from the South?” The Divine asks, voice perfectly level and almost pleasant. 

“Because that heretic ox has first hand experience fighting the war the Imperium is currently doing its best to ignore,” Herah snaps back, her own eyes narrowed considerably. “But that's just speculation, Most Holy. You would never command something so foolish, you who speak in the Maker's name to your people. If Vyrantium leaves on its own right now, Vyrantium will die. Either in the crossfire or as retaliation for Coracavus.” Herah offers a thin smile. “Their survival is an insult to Corypheus, he won't leave them be, so long he lives. He claims himself a god, now, he can't afford to.” 

The silence stretches, once more. Herah begins to wonder if the pauses are purely for keeping the mood tense and foreboding, or if the Divine is pondering her words. 

“You are wrong,” he says, after a moment, “but then you speak for the... _Andrastean_ Chantry, so how could I expect you to be anything but?” He sneers. “I do not claim to speak for the Maker, Inquisitor. The Maker has turned his back upon the world, disgusted by the sins of his children and their unrepentant nature. Any who claims to speak for the Maker is a heretic and a fool, and I pride myself on being neither.” Then he switches tones and topics so quickly, Herah is left blinking. “Who struck the killing blow to Primus Vitellius?” 

Dorian swallows hard. 

“I did,” he says, raising to his feet and walking up to stand by Herah's right. “...Your Holiness.” 

The Divine peers down at him with the slightest of frowns. 

“And you are...?” 

Dorian swallows again, hands clutching at each other behind his back. 

“Dorian Pavus, of House-” 

“Oh,” the Divine interrupts, slightly deadpan. “ _Halward's_ kid.” 

The entire left side of Dorian's face twitches violently. Herah is sincerely impressed when he doesn't fling a fireball at the crystal on reflex. 

“Er,” Dorian begins, trying desperately for a polite way to tell the Divine to go fuck himself, preferably on his own staff, but he gets interrupted – _again_ – before he can come up with something good. 

“I suppose your presence amongst the Inquisition is somewhat related to your father's recent turn in politics,” the Divine says with an air of resigned callousness. Dorian is irritated enough still, that he manages to keep the surprise out of his face, out of sheer spite. “Do you suppose I will simply ratify your dubiously earned position and allow you to bolster the Inquisition with Vyrantium's survivors?” 

“...not particularly, no,” Dorian admits, conjuring a facsimile of charm that Herah can see is barely skin deep. “Mostly, I assumed this conversation was never going to take place, considering I murdered Primus Vitellius, on my own, admittedly, but without the prerequisite fanfare to call it a formal duel.” 

“Yet you were never _formally_ expelled from Vyrantium,” the Divine says, with the air of this being common knowledge, rather than some bizarre obscurity that someone who'd pretended _not to know who Dorian is_ has no business knowing. Dorian does his best to keep himself from spluttering too loudly. “And there is, in a way, precedent, considering the mitigating circumstances.” 

Dorian gets the weirdest feeling that his life is about to change forever and he should probably start running and never stop. 

“...surely you're not considering ratifying my position as Primus Enchanter of Vyrantium,” he says, because it's ludicrous and insane, and surely upon hearing it out loud, the Divine will shot down the notion with all the scornful mockery it deserves. 

“You don't deserve the honor,” the Divine says, right on cue, though Dorian tries not to flinch at the matter-of-fact delivery of it. “Allowing you the title would only legitimize Vyrantium's stay with the Inquisition and entitle it to its resources. It would send a clear message across the Imperium and cause no end to political strife. It would also irritate Radonis intensely, for all he despises Corypheus and his Venatori, and I would prefer to remain on amicable terms with the Archon for the time being. In short,” he sighs quietly, “it would be a very foolish thing to do.” 

“Of course,” Dorian says, leaping at the chance to wash his hands clean of the matter, because despite it all, he has a sense of self preservation. “I-” 

“And yet,” the Divine interrupts, purposefully, methodically, in a voice full of contempt and resignation, “you have done me a not insignificant service, unknowingly as it was.” Dorian shuts his mouth so tightly he might have bitten off a chunk of his tongue in the process. “If you had let my son die, I would have marched the faithful South and burned it and Corypheus to the ground, from Val Royeaux to Denerim.” The Divine offers a thin lipped smile that makes everyone watching damn certain he's not bluffing. “As it is, Adrian will live long enough to be named my heir, and I suppose Corypheus will have to be disposed by your fumbling efforts and not the full wrath of the Imperium chasing after him. Nonetheless, my son is not a bargaining chip and you will not be rewarded for his continued safety.” He stares them down, considering, with the air of a man whose words are heeded and known to carry weight by themselves. “You will, however, be rewarded for your services to Vyrantium and the Imperium as a whole. A writ will be published, in the coming days; it will announce Dorian of House Pavus has accepted the honor of serving as Vyrantium's Primus Enchanter. It will also outline the Inquisition's duties during the war, while Vyrantium remains under its stewardship. Namely, that you will not forcefully conscript any Tevinter mage under your care, and that you will be personally responsible for any who chooses to join your active forces regardless. Once the war is over, Vyrantium will be released back to Tevinter, where it will resume its duties to both the Archon and myself. This is all I grant you, and nothing else.” 

“I appreciate your generosity, Your Holiness,” Herah replies, recovering way before Dorian, who is stuck staring at the Divine like he's grown a second head. 

“See that you do,” the Divine says, sneering, “I dislike having it taken for granted. Rilienus.” 

“Yes, Most Holy,” Rilienus replies, still bowing low and refusing to look up. 

“You represent the Chantry among heretics, now, which means you represent me in my absence. You may not speak in my name, but I will nonetheless be judged by your actions. Bear it in mind next time you think to do something as stupid as swearing to the Venatori again.” 

“I shall, Most Holy,” Rilienus replies, perfectly contrite. 

“Oh, and Rilienus?” The Divine waits until Rilienus finally looks up to continue, expression severe. “The terms of our contract remain the same. Your services belong to me, exclusively. You will not arm the Inquisition mages.” There's a small pause, as the Divine considers his next words. “You may, however, arm the Inquisitor's personal guard, if they'll agree to it. But you will not forge anything else, unless I explicitly command it.” 

Rilienus swallows hard. 

“May I arm the Inquisitor herself?” 

The Divine glares at him for a moment, then turns to look at Herah, considering. 

“You may,” he says after another of those long, awkward pauses that Herah was ever more certain were left on purpose. “Provided, that is, that the Inquisitor understands this is not another sign of my gratitude, but rather a whim I've decided to indulge in, because I find her a lot less disagreeable than I initially thought I would.” 

“I'm honored,” Herah bites back, before she can help herself. 

“As you should be,” the Divine agrees, and then sighs again. “Now leave, all of you. I wish to have a word alone with my son.” 

  


* * *

  


Dorian locks himself into a room with Rilienus, the moment they leave the courtyard and doesn't come back until after the augur has left and Adrian – who Herah decides she likes a lot more than his father, considering he's polite and soft-spoken and not at all condescending – has excused himself and returned to where the rest fo the Vyrantium kids are. Most of the Inquisition has wandered off to sort their thoughts on the matters of the Divine and Vyrantium on their own, but Bull and Herah remain outside the suspiciously quiet door, by the time Dorian strolls out, Rilienus' staff in his hand. 

“You took his staff?” Bull asks dubiously, in lieu of a greeting. 

“For starters,” Dorian bites out viciously, then nods at them. “Come on. You, me, dragon. Let's go.” 

“What,” Herah says, somewhat at loss for anything more witty. 

“Rilienus said the Venatori were trying to lure a dragon somewhere south of here,” Dorian says impatiently, but when all he receives are blank looks for his efforts, he sighs dramatically. “Several important life decisions were just made for me, in the past hour. Including one where I'm expected to be responsible for people who aren't just me. Now, I am perfectly capable of handling that,” Dorian adds, with the air of a man forcefully enunciating a lie and hoping it'll somehow become truth by the time he's done, “but before I start, I feel entitled to let out a bit of steam. That it'll also ruin Corypheus' plans is a nice bonus to it. So?” 

“Never gonna say no to a _dragon_ ,” Bull replies, grinning a tad goofily at Dorian in a way that makes Herah resist the urge to roll her eyes. 

“Let's gather the others,” Herah says, smiling despite it all, “I reckon they will appreciate your logic, Dorian.” 

“Well _good_ ,” Dorian snaps, “someone should.” 

  


* * *

  


“You're in charge, right?” Scout Harding asks, lightly kicking Rilienus' leg to wake him up. 

“Excuse me?” Rilienus asks back, somewhat mystified by the small woman looking at him with a mix of determination and certainty he's learned to fear in anyone older than four. 

“Of the Tevinter mage people,” Harding says, nodding at the room Rilienus is tacitly guarding, “you're in charge, right?” 

“Lord Pavus is in charge,” Rilienus replies, with a pained undertone that makes Harding snicker. 

“Yeah, but he's not here, and when he's not here, you're in charge, right?” 

“You're going to ask me something,” Rilienus says, squinting somewhat. 

“More like offer, actually,” she says, smirking. “The Keep's well is poisoned, but we found a cavern with a spring, half a mile from here. We're going out in groups, to bathe and bring back fresh water. I figured your guys might want to come too.” When Rilienus keeps staring at her, she shrugs. “You've got nearly a hundred people packed in that room, sweaty and dirty and probably still bloodied from the whole Coracavus ordeal. Can't exactly smell like roses, I imagine.” 

“And in return for this,” Rilienus says, venomous as usual, “you expect what exactly?” 

Harding arches an eyebrow and refuses to cower. 

“You lot not stinking up the fortress, mostly.” She sighs, when he glares. “Look, I don't know how you Tevinter folk do things, back home, but the Inquisitor said you were part of us now, and in the Inquisition, we look after our own.” 

Rilienus gives her a strange look, shrewd and judging, but not... not the same kind of rude and defensive he always wears. Then the moment passes and he shrugs. 

“I'll ask if they want to go.” 

  


* * *

  


“You trust him.” 

Rilienus looks up to find the horned giant looming by the doorway. He makes a point to sneer half-heartedly before turning back to rubbing salve along the length of his forearms, where the skin is tender and new. 

“You trust him,” the Qunari repeats, stepping into the room slowly, carefully. “He punched you in the face the first time he saw you. He nearly set you on fire. He stabbed you in the leg. But despite the bitching and the taunting, you told him the truth and did as he said. Because you trust him.” 

“Are you going somewhere with this?” Rilienus asks, tone bored and expression to match. “Or is this another asinine ritual to join the Inquisition?” 

“Spy,” the Qunari replies, shrugging his massive shoulders as he does. “Need to figure you out, you know? Can’t help it.” He offers a smile. Rilienus imagines he means it as a placating gesture, but it only makes it harder to resist the urge to throw a fireball at his face. “I mean, I got fired, a while back. But the thing about spies is… well, it’s not a job, really. After a while, if you’re any good at it, it becomes what you are.” 

The lie slides easy and subtle from his tongue, and Bull finds himself not just trying to figure out Rilienus, but also himself, in the process. Multitasking, he tells himself, with a little deadpan that sounds very much like Dorian, yay. 

“And I suppose you were good at it?” Rilienus asks, refusing to move even as the Qunari circles around him, like a great big cat stalking prey. “Even though you got fired?” 

“Very,” the Qunari replies, “Usually, at least. Dorian’s a friend of mine, so it’s a little personal, this. I’m trying to work around the bias.” 

“And figure me out, huh,” Rilienus replies, eyebrows arched. “But you’re surprised I trust him. I hope you’re a better spy than you’re a friend, apparently.” 

“See, I trust Dorian. A lot,” the Qunari insists, snorting. Amused. Relaxed. It makes Rilienus’ teeth ache, he’s clenching them so much. “Trust him with my life. My dick, sometimes, even.” His eyes narrow. “But you knew that, didn’t you?” 

“You are the living embodiment of everything that is forbidden to him,” Rilienus says, airily, “and he’s so very good at doing everything he’s forbidden from.” 

“See, in my line of work,” the Qunari says, head tilted slightly to the side, “I get threatened a lot. A lot,” he repeats, for emphasis. “On a good day, I’m the biggest, meanest thing in the field. Folk feel threatened by that, I get it. I don’t mind the threats, they don’t very often mean it.” 

“But I did,” Rilienus interrupts as he offers a smile that’s barely above a handful of bared teeth. “And you’re a spy and Dorian’s friend, so of course you want to figure me out.” 

“You lie, all the time,” Bull says, but without the accusatory tone behind it. More like a statement of fact he's made peace with. “You lied to the Inquisitor. You lied to Dorian. You lied to your kids. You’re a very good liar, in fact. I wouldn’t have realized it, if you hadn’t been telling the truth, when you threatened to kill me.” 

“Fascinating,” Rilienus says, in a tone that telegraph the entire conversation is anything but. “Your point being?” 

“My point being I've got my eye on you,” Bull says, shrugging. “Only, you haven't done anything wrong, really. And it's probably just me being paranoid. So I figured you're entitled to a warning.” 

“How kind of you,” Rilienus deadpans, “I'll be sure to write a note to myself to give a fuck about this, at some point. Is that all?” 

Bull laughs awkwardly, expression wry. 

“You really do enjoy being an unpleasant bastard, don't you?” 

“Not nearly as much as you seem to enjoy the sound of your own voice,” Rilienus says as he grabs his staff and begins walking to the doorway Bull is so conspicuously blocking. “Good day.” 

Bull moves out of the way to let Rilienus pass and shakes his head with a little sigh, once the man is out of sight. This would be easier, he grumps in his head, if Dorian would talk about it. But since Dorian clearly is not going to talk about it, Bull is just going to have to make do. 

  


* * *

  


In the end, the decision is to abandon the Keep and fold back towards Skyhold. The Inquisition simply hasn't got the men and resources to keep the outpost so far away from home at the moment, though given what Herah has learned about the Venatori plans and the plot against the Grey Wardens, she knows for a fact they will come back sooner rather than later. Perhaps then, she'll have enough men to permanently set up a camp in the Keep and reach out to both the Hissing Wastes and the Forbidden Oasis to thwart the Venatori plots there. 

Travel is slow, considering they are bringing children with them and suddenly the dangers of the war across Orlais are all the more poignant because of it. It took them a month to reach the Approach, but it's nearly twice that long before they reach the Inquisition camps in the Emerald Graves, on the way back. 

Dorian has spent most of the journey slowly but surely getting to know the mages now permanently under his care, trying to earn some semblance of trust. He began the work dreading it, to be honest, but apparently Rilienus' implicit trust of him matters a lot to the children – they're children, all of them, the oldest is twenty two and missing three fingers in her left hand, and Dorian is so angry he's legitimately considering raising up Galba and Vitellius purely for the pleasure of killing them again. He's not quite sure what to do with that many eyes looking at him with shrewd expectancy and then clinging to his every word, rather than fighting it. When he told Herah about it, one cold, miserable night on the border to the Exalted Plains, she'd been most unsympathetic and jokingly told him now he knew what she felt as Inquisitor most of the time. Dorian doesn't really see the humor in it. 

It breaks his heart, somewhere deep and secret he hadn't known he could hurt, to hear young men and women talk quietly about their fields of study, the hopes and dreams Vyrantium had inspired in them and that the Venatori crushed so cruelly. He does not mean to get attached, he knows the folly of it quite well, but he cannot look at them, broken and tired and willing to follow him anyway, and not feel an overwhelming urge to protect them. They're not unquestionably good, but they're also not irredeemably evil. They're the theoretical Tevinter he's always sworn loyalty to. Simple people, with likes and dislikes, and the capacity to make a choice. And that knowledge, that the responsibility to guide them towards the right choice now lies on him, is inescapable. 

“Copper for your thoughts?” Bull asks him, as he comes to sit by the fire with him. 

Dorian stares at the sea of tents holding the Tevinter mages, laid out in such a way that the older members of the Circle are positioned surrounding the tents of the youngest. He didn't tell them to do that, either. 

“Just wondering,” he says, clutching at the borrowed staff he nicked from the spoils recovered from Coracavus. It's weaker than his old one, but it serves him well enough, at least until they're back in Skyhold, where Rilienus promised to forge him a new one. “If this is how you feel every day, leading the Chargers.” When Bull makes a questioning noise, encouraging him to speak up, Dorian shrugs carefully. “I've never been a leader, before. Too brash, I suppose. Too... uncompromising. I was never someone people followed, and I always refused to follow anyone. And now... well, now here are.” 

“They like you well enough,” Bull points out, offering a small shrug. “Right?” 

“They have no reason to!” Dorian replies, voice strangled. “They know absolutely nothing of me!” 

Bull shoves his shoulder against Dorian's, the motion strangely affectionate in a way that makes Dorian keenly aware of the lack of... physicality in their partnership lately. It's not, he reminds himself, as if sex is the sum total of it, much to his chagrin. But it was sex that started it all, and for all he's grown rather fond of Bull as a friend, the sex was also really, really good. He's irritated by his own thoughts on the matter, which is why he's endeavored not to think about it, ever since Bull first declined an offer. Because that's all it was, he tells himself, just an offer. Something to take or leave, without further consequence. And Bull has had to deal with enough things, as it is. It's a selfish urge, Dorian tells himself, and while he's aware he's quite a selfish person by nature, he also knows he can't help but try, for the sake of those he cares about. 

And that's the crux of it, really, his irrational need to _care_ about things. 

People. 

He was perfectly fine, before, when sex was an amusement and a stress relief. Transactional, really. He didn't care if his partners had nightmares in the middle of the night or often got lost in thought, staring at the distance as their minds went to entirely different times or places or both. He didn't care if his partners were jumpy and hated when people walked up to them from their blind sides, and he didn't make an effort to always stand there because then they could relax and trust him to guard them from attacks. He didn't care if his partners were sad or angry or wistful. 

All he cared was that they were willing to fuck him and get fucked by him, and by the end of the night all that would matter was how mutually pleasant the experience was. 

Now, though, now he cares. And the realization is no less infuriating now than it was the first time. Because it's a stupid thing, to care for Bull the way he does. Bull wants – needs – a friend, not... not whatever stupid thing Dorian thinks about when he lays awake in their tent, listening to Bull pretend he's not waking up from a nightmare. It wasn't even like their thing was... binding or anything. Bull's never made a secret of his love for redheads and there are a few in Skyhold who never really made a secret their interest in him. And Dorian knows this – knew this when it happened – and he told himself he didn't care, because they agreed to terms but those terms never included any of that. 

Because that was never on the table and Dorian hates himself a little for how much he wants it anyway. 

And now, now he's doing it again, in a way. He's finding himself caring for Vyrantium more each day, trying to reach out to each and every child, even though he knows the only thing that will come from it is more misery in the long run. 

“This is the problem with you,” Bull tells him, blissfully oblivious to the snarling knot of thoughts hissing inside Dorian's head. 

“You realize you can't keep claiming to have figured out the singular problem,” Dorian says, forcing his voice into a deadpan to conceal the monotone beneath, “if you keep coming up with new ones.” 

Bull shoves his shoulder at him again and Dorian makes an irritated noise in the back of his throat when a large, muscled arm falls heavy and comfortable around his shoulders. It's the only suitable expression for the new flare of self-loathing in his gut, that ignites as soon as he leans against Bull's side. 

“You keep thinking you have to prove to people that you're worth liking,” Bull says, eye glinting slyly as he looks down at him, “sometimes people just... like you, no matter how much you think they shouldn't.” There's the grin, right on cue. “Or you could just accept the fact you're just likable.” 

“Lies,” Dorian says, closing his eyes and relaxing against his will. “All filthy lies. Tell me more.” 

Because Bull is, well, _Bull_ , he does. 

Dorian basks in the sound of his voice and yearns for the days when he could just fuck a goddamn burly Qunari and not feel emotionally constipated about it. 

  


* * *

  


“Oh, this day is looking up already,” Dorian says, ignoring the mages around him that wince at the loud roaring. 

“It's a dragon,” Rilienus says unnecessarily, staring oddly at Dorian and the delight in his face. 

“Yes.” 

“A _high_ dragon,” Rilienus clarifies, because in his experience, the reaction to that should not be an ear-splitting grin of sheer excitement. 

“Indeed!” Dorian replies, as he slides lyrium potions to his pockets and then stretches enough to crack his back. 

“Why are you _excited_ about a _high dragon?”_ Rilienus demands, in a slightly strangled voice as Dorian begins walking over to where the Inquisitor and her Inner Circle is waiting for him. 

“Because after the last few weeks,” Dorian tells him, as if this were something obvious and not clearly demented, “I deserve something nice.” 

“It's a high dragon!” Rilienus snaps, throwing his arms in the air, “there's nothing _nice_ about it!” 

“I'd have to disagree, actually,” Dorian replies, eyebrows arched. “They're surprisingly fun, once you get past the obvious suicidal daring required to kill one.” 

“Fun,” Rilienus deadpans, and then glares at the entirety of the Inquisition when they look at him with varying degrees of indulgence and condescension. “ _Fun_. It's a blighted _dragon_ , Dorian.” 

“I know, right?” Dorian grins at him like a child about to receive a particularly succulent treat. 

Rilienus makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat as the Inquisitor starts walking off in the direction of the dragon's den, Dorian following at her heels. 

“It's fine,” Bull tells Rilienus, attempting to pat him in the shoulder reassuringly. Rilienus dodges his hand and glares at him. “We're dragon slaying experts at this point.” 

Rilienus points the tip of his staff at Bull's chest, eyes narrowed viciously. 

“If he dies,” he says, eyes dark and expression fierce, “I _will_ kill you.” 

Bull stares down at Rilienus for a moment, a small, puzzled frown on his brow, before he inclines his head in acknowledgement. 

“Threat duly noted.” 

  


* * *

  


The Inquisition eventually returns to the cave camp covered in a thin layer of frost but with the self-satisfied look of smug hunters. Rilienus has the unenviable task of waggling a Circle's worth of enraptured mages who demand all the details about the fight. 

Dorian is of absolutely no help whatsoever, and repeats the story as many times as he's asked. 

“See?” Bull tells Rilienus, after he's managed to send the younger members of Vyrantium to bed, and Dorian is retelling the story with Sera's help for the benefit of the older kids. “All's well that ends well, right?” 

“Oh, go fuck yourself,” Rilienus says with feeling, further annoyed by Bull's sincere laugh. 

  


* * *

  


As soon as they get back to Skyhold, Herah gets whiskered away by her advisers, to get updated on all the pressing, important things that happened during her absence. As such, she's not around to help Vyrantium settle into the last empty tower in the fortress proper. It's a ruinous mess, but she receives a suspicious lack of complaints about it. Josephine, on the other hand, Josephine has a lot of things to say. Not all of them polite, either. Apparently news about Vyrantium reached Skyhold before them, including a facsimile of the Divine's writ that raised a storm in politics, all across the world. 

Herah winces but lets her advisers speak until they're done, before she delivers her own report about the Aproach, the Venatori and the impending battle of the Adamant. 

“Well,” Cullen says, staring at the map and playing out the march in his head, “shit.” 

“Yeah,” Herah sighs, leaning on the war table to study the pins and markers with a slight morose look on her face, “that's about it, I reckon.” 

“How fast can you get the Inquisitor an audience with Celene?” Leliana asks Josephine, frowning. 

“You know I've been trying, since Redcliff,” Josephine replies, mouth twisted into an unhappy line. “The Empress' circle has closed ranks considerably, so a direct audience might not be possible. But the season will begin soon enough. An invitation to one of the larger balls might be easier to arrange. Are your people still...?” 

“I have eyes on Celene, day and night,” Leliana replies, sighing softly. “There has been nothing yet, fortunately. But after such a severe blow against the Venatori, Corypheus might wish to expedite his plans.” 

“Perhaps Vyrantium's presence might be useful,” Josephine muses, drumming her fingers against the war table. “The trade routes that have been opened to us by the Black Divine's writ... it might take time, but I could cultivate something there. In the meantime,” she added, changing topics and giving the Inquisitor a pointed look, “I believe it's time we began working in earnest to properly introduce you to the Game, Inquisitor. I pray that you prove yourself as fast a learner in this, as you have proven yourself in everything else. You must play for the highest stakes, and you will not have a second chance, should you fail.” 

Herah's feelings must have shown in her face, because Leliana chuckles. 

“Now, now, Josie, don't upset the Inquisitor,” she says, smiling in a way that bares her sharp teeth, “she'll have excellent teachers, in you and me.” She looks over at Cullen, who is still staring at the pieces on the war table, and smirks. “Perhaps our dear Commander should join us as well. It couldn't hurt to be prepared, now, could it?” 

Cullen splutters gloriously, and Herah feels terrible because it actually makes her feel a tiny bit better. 

  


* * *

  


The Valo-Kas settlement has doubled in size in their absence. Bull stares at the shifting crowds of Vashoth and Tal-Vashoth with something like trepidation, as he realizes it has become something like a village made of tents. Tal-Shokrakar's tent still dwarfs all others, looming at the center of the encampment, but as Bull makes his way to it, he realizes there are a good deal of humans mingling about as well. There's no one guarding the tent and the flap is wide open, so Bull only lingers by the entrance a moment, before he allows himself inside, ducking on instinct even though the doorway is high enough for him. 

“It's not working, is it?” Shokrakar says when she sees him, sitting on her cushions and writing letters. 

Bull scowls for a moment before deciding that... well, that was exactly what he'd meant to tell her, by coming here. He offers a small shrug before he moves to sit where she motions him to. 

“...almost,” he admits, moving his leg until it's propped up and it won't smart after a moment. “I killed a dragon. Plural, by now. I chose to live and I've _been_ living. I tried to salvage what I could of him, but-” 

“But it's not yours,” Shokrakar finishes for him, smiling wryly. “What made you come see me?” She asks, violet eyes bright and sharp. “You're a stubborn like a mule, and prideful too. I expected it'd take you a year of this nonsense before you could bring yourself to come see me.” 

Bull frowns a little, vaguely insulted by the words and slightly creeped out by the accuracy. Then again, Shokrakar is the Soul of the Valo-Kas, and used to be the Soul of the Qunari. It stands to reason that she would be good at seeing right through people like him. Though, he tells himself forcefully, he is neither Qunari nor Valo-Kas. 

“Hissrad had a friend,” Bull says, frowning. “That friend has proven himself a friend to me, as well. He wants to understand, but I don't know how to explain it to him.” 

“This friend,” Shokrakar says, nodding, “do you want him as your friend?” 

“I do,” Bull replies, without skipping a beat. “He's... he's a good friend. I've tried to... to explain, but the words don't make sense. I promised I would talk to him, but I don't know how. He's not Qunari.” 

“That's not the problem,” Shokrakar says, carefully folding a letter and then putting away her writing instruments. “The problem is that you're doing things by halves. You can either have everything Hissrad had, his friends, his past, his suffering, his hate... or you have to let go of everything. You can't have it both ways.” 

“Hissrad is dead,” Bull says, tonelessly, as he stares at his hands. 

“Hissrad is dead to the Qunari,” Shokrakar corrects, oddly gentle, “but he doesn't have to be dead to you.” 

“I want the clean slate,” Bull says, clenching his fingers on the fabric of his pants. “I want the choice you told me about. To be myself.” 

“But part of you still wants to be Hissrad, don't you?” Shokrakar smiles. “Part of you wants the certainty of who he was, to guide who you'll become. Part of you realizes that you'll always be who you are, because of him.” 

“I'm not Hissrad,” Bull says, a bit more forcefully than intended, “I'm the Iron Bull.” 

“It's good that you know that,” she says, and Bull flinches when she reaches a hand to pat his head, like a child. The gesture is terrifying for reasons he can't readily articulate. “But you have to make a choice, and you have to commit to it. If you truly want to kill Hissrad, you have to move on. You have to leave his shadow and go somewhere where his history won't reach you.” 

“I can't leave the Inquisition,” Bull replies, and thinks of Dorian, first and foremost. 

“You can,” Shokrakar says, “you just don't want to. But it's okay if you don't want to. You can choose not to leave. And you can choose not to run away from Hissrad and his past. You can choose to make it yours.” Her hand slides down his face, tilting his chin up so she can look at him in the eye. “You can choose to stop being afraid of the person you could be, and start embracing the person you are. The good and the bad. It'll hurt, every step of the way. It'll make you ache like your lungs are full of water. It'll make you cry over everything you've ever told yourself you shouldn't cry about. It'll make you miserable, until one day you're not, and then you'll look back and think of Hissrad as an old friend, rather than the sum total of the worst things that ever happened to you.” 

“Is that what you did?” He asks, imprudently, perhaps, but finds that Shokrakar doesn't seem angry about it. “When you... left?” 

“Yes,” she replies, nodding as she lets go of him. “I thought about quitting a lot, of just... letting go, but I didn't.” 

“Why?” 

Shokrakar fingers the chain around her neck, though the pendant itself is hidden in the folds of her clothing. 

“Because the best things about being the Ariqun were worth more than all the worst things combined.” 

  


* * *

  


“So, is the blood an accelerator or a component for the forging process?” 

Dorian winces slightly as Dagna's voice echoes through the storage room where piles of ore and other materials for weapons are stacked up. He's admittedly somewhat excited to see what Rilienus will make for him, unlike Herah, Vivienne and Solas, because he actually knows what it means, Rilienus' post as the Divine's personal staffsmith. The Black Divine is unarguably one of, if not the strongest mage in all the Imperium, and to own a staff of such quality as to be consider acceptable for him is no small thing. He's also admittedly curious about the process, though Rilienus has been infuriatingly tight-lipped about it. 

He's also been uncharacteristically pleasant upon meeting the resident Arcanist, and Dorian is not sure that's not just a prelude for a barrage of worse... Rilienus-ness than usual. 

“Bit of both,” Rilienus replies, eminently polite as he goes about digging through a pile of unrefined silverite ore. “It is easier to mold materials that have been bonded to the blood, but it's hardly necessary.” He grabs a piece the size of Dorian's head and probably as heavy as Bull's ax, and then grunts as he lifts it up to squint back and forth between it and Dorian's face. Then he puts it down and goes rummage around some more. “If you're truly interested, you are more than welcome to witness the process.” 

“Oh, that would be amazing!” Dagna replies, eyes bright and mercifully looking away from Dorian and the interesting expression on his face. “It's kind of you to offer, er... do you prefer Enchanter or Brother as your main title?” 

“If I'm forced to endure a title at all,” Rilienus sighs, “I'd go with Brother. But I'd prefer it if you simply used my name.” 

“I'll remember that, Rilienus,” Dagna says with a smile. “Will you be starting soon? Do I have time to grab my notes?” 

“I will wait for you before I start,” Rilienus replies, shrugging. “Besides, I still need to finish gathering all my materials.” 

“I'll be right back!” Dagna says, before she scurries away with a bright smile. 

Dorian makes a choked noise in the back of his throat. 

“The hell?” He manages, after a moment. 

Rilienus looks up from another chunk of silverite to squint at him. 

“What?” 

Dorian splutters. 

“You're being nice to her,” he says, and then blushes slightly when he realizes how accusing it sounds. “You're never nice to anyone.” 

Rilienus snorts. 

“I'm not nice, in general,” he says, rolling his eyes with a flourish. “I simply respect her talent and her knowledge.” When Dorian merely stares at him, Rilienus glares back. “Have you read her treaty on lyrium? It's positively inspired. I am merely grateful for the opportunity to converse with someone who isn't a grunting imbecile in the field of magical theory.” 

“...ouch,” Dorian deadpans, one eyebrow arched. 

“You're good at making lightshows, Dorian,” Rilienus says, with the same tone one would use to speak with a particularly stubborn five year old, “but we both know you wouldn't know how to handle proper magical theory if your life depended on it.” 

“I helped invent functional time magic, thank you very much!” Dorian snaps back, scowling. “I'm fucking _fantastic_ at magical theory.” 

“Mhm,” Rilienus replies, clearly unconvinced, “of course you are.” 

“You are _impossible_ ,” Dorian snaps, twitching violently. 

Rilienus merely smirks. By the time Dagna returns, Rilienus has gatered his materials and Dorian has resigned himself to glare sullenly at the view from the undercroft. 

“Now then,” Rilienus says, laying out the ore and the other materials on a table. “Would you like me to narrate as I'm working, or should we keep the discussion for after I'm done?” 

Dorian resists the urge to groan. 

Rilienus works while Dorian sips a healing potion and feels his body ever so slowly being to replenish the blood he spilled at Rilienus' request. Objectively, he knows it wasn't that much, but he feels drained both physically and magically, and the sensation isn't wholly pleasant. He sits back and watches Dagna peer at the table with rapt attention as Rilienus slowly beings molding the materials together, mixing them with Dorian's blood and then very carefully pulling out the familiar shape of a staff from out of them. It's a fascinating process, admittedly, but it makes Dorian wonder how exactly did Rilienus come to learn the craft. He supposes Rilienus himself will tell him, one day, if and when he stops acting like everything is a secret he must keep and cover up with lies. Dorian doesn't hold it against him, really, but he supposes he's out of practice still. 

“You're not very subtle,” Dorian says, as Rilienus begins working on the staff's top half, which being to take shape and resemble the entwined vipers from Vyrantium's banners, curled around each other and the focusing crystal Rilienus has created out of the bulk of his blood. 

“I don't choose the shape,” Rilienus replies, smirking. “Your blood did.” 

Dorian would be a lot more inclined to argue about this, but it's truly a beautiful staff and the moment he wraps a hand around it, it pulses with familiar warmth. 

“What do you reckon would happen if we enchanted it?” Dagna asks, eyebrows arched. 

Dorian doesn't care, the hum of power is breathtaking enough he's ceased to pay attention to anything else. This is a staff, he thinks, that would easily let him take on a dragon on his own. 

He wonders if Bull would be game to let him try. 

  


* * *

  


Bull had meant to find Dorian, honestly. He'd set out to find him and ask him to go to their training grounds in Haven, to have a long overdue chat about... well, everything. But Dorian has relocated himself to the tower Vyrantium has claimed for itself, out of solidarity, and when Bull approaches it, the door slams open before he can reach it, and Cullen comes storming out of the tower with hell and fury written all over his face. 

“You alright there, Commander?” Bull asks, blinking slightly as the man nearly runs into him. 

“That man!” Cullen snarls, pointing an accusing finger at the tower. “He's the most offensive, insulting, little-” 

Bull chuckles, offering a sympathetic pat on the back. 

“Yeah, that's...” He sighs. “That's Rilienus, alright.” 

“I just!” Cullen says, clenching his fingers. “Maker's _breath_.” 

“Not talking to him works for me,” Bull offers, expression wry. “He's almost pleasant, if you don't talk to him. Or you could talk to Dorian, instead. Rilienus listens to Dorian, for whatever reason.” 

“ _Mages_ ,” Cullen says, eventually, for lack of something far more... colorful, Bull assumes. “Will you be going by the practice yard sometime today?” 

“...probably?” Bull blinks. “Need me to hit you with a stick, Commander?” 

Cullen snorts. 

“More like I need to hit someone,” he replies, shaking his head, “and you're the only person I can think of, that I can hit as hard as I need to, and not actually kill in the process.” 

Bull grins. 

“Flatterer,” he teases, ignoring Cullen's offended glare for the remark. “I'll drop by after your recruits finish their drills, alright?” 

“Yes,” Cullen sighs, shoulders slumping a bit. He offers Bull a small, relieved smile. “Thank you.” 

“Not a problem,” Bull says, and then grins, because he can't resist it. “Though I draw the line at wearing a wig to make you feel better. I don't know how he pulls off three feet of hair without, you know, stumbling on it, or something.” 

Bull laughs when Cullen refuses to comment, and shakes his head as he watches him stomp away with as much wounded dignity as he can manage. He ends up leaving a message with a squinty looking girl with freckles, and then heads back to the Herald's Rest instead. 

  


* * *

  


“So I told him,” Dorian says, walking across the snowed trail with a small little smile, “look at the brightside, Krem. People are about to realize we're the _good_ kind of Vint. Rilienus is going to single handledly make us look better by comparison and we don't have to do _squat_.” 

“Did he punch you for that?” Bull wonders, grinning at Dorian's smirk. 

“Of course not,” he replies, just snotty enough to be funny, “I'm excellent at dodging, in case you haven't noticed.” 

“Yes,” Bull snorts, “that must be why you're so good with barriers.” 

“Ass,” Dorian sighs, giving him a fond if terribly long-suffering look, more so when Bull turns slightly to show off that precise bit of his anatomy. “Put that away unless you plan to use it.” 

Bull snorts a laugh at that, but quiets down when he realizes they've reached their destination. 

“That's kind of the point of this talk, isn't it?” He says, sobering up somewhat. “Figuring out stuff.” 

“Mostly I'm just hoping to get laid,” Dorian lies, because he thinks it's the expected reply and Bull laughs right on cue. 

But also because the truth is a lot more raw, and should probably be never spoken out loud. 

“Yeah,” Bull says, grinning the same goofy grin he gets on his face when the topic of dragons comes up, “yeah, I'd like that, too.” 

Dorian forces air into his lungs, offers a blithe little smile, and shrugs. 

“So then,” he says, holding onto his new staff like a life line, “shall I start or do you want to do the honors?” 

Bull smiles, and it just goes from there. 

  


* * *

  


Rilienus is awake when Dorian sneaks back to the tower much later that night. 

Because of course he is. 

“Do you want me to kill the damn ox?” He asks, as he follows Dorian up the stairs towards the room at the top of the tower, which was unceremoniously given to him without his input on the matter. It has a lovely view, Dorian must admit, though he's not exactly in the right mindset to appreciate it at the moment. “I have half a mind to, already.” 

“Shut up, Rilienus,” Dorian snaps tiredly, placing his staff by the bed as he goes to sit on it with a loud sigh. “I'm an idiot.” 

There's a moment of awkward silence. 

“...am I expected to disagree with that or...” 

Dorian runs a hand through his hair. 

“Sympathy,” he says, rolling his eyes, “you're expected to show sympathy.” 

“You're in love with the dumbass Qunari moron,” Rilienus says, not quite callously, but also not particularly delicately. “Whom you're fucking again anyway, apparently, despite the fact that somehow makes it worse.” He arches both eyebrows mockingly. “I've never loved anyone and my celibacy suits me so well, I might just make a vow out of it. I'm not exactly the best person to provide sympathy in this situation.” 

“Shut up and hug me,” Dorian says, glowering a little. 

He huffs when Rilienus rolls his eyes, but complies anyway. They sit there for a moment, Dorian's head tucked against Rilienus' shoulder and Rilienus' chin atop Dorian's head. It's a prickly kind of hug, but also the kind of hug Dorian really needs at the moment, so that works out just fine. 

Then Rilienus sighs and Dorian braces himself. 

“I suppose I could make it look like an accident,” he says, “if you really, really want me to.” 

Dorian laughs, despite it all, because he promised himself to never cry about such things, so very long ago. 

  


* * *

  



	7. rules of engagement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which people try to figure out where they stand with each other before summarily deciding to just making it up as they along, but it's okay because no one really knows what they're doing. (Oh, God, no.)

  


* * *

  


_vii. rules of engagement._

  


* * *

  


“I don't know who I am,” Bull says, standing knee-deep in snow and staring down at the ruins of Haven with a sigh. “I just know who I'm not. I'm not the same man who joined the Inquisition, I'm not... I'm not your friend.” 

Dorian purses his lips, eyes narrowed, but allows himself to be silent, swallowing down all the vicious witticisms weighting down his tongue. Bull needs to speak this out, give it voice, make it words. Dorian can wait until he's done, to say his piece. If he still thinks is piece has any place here, after all is said and done. 

“The Qun teaches this fundamental truth,” Bull says, echoing Tal-Shokrakar's words with ease. “That there's a place for everything, and that everyone has their place. I mean, there's a lot more in there, but it's just... trying to narrow down that statement. Make it... cleaner, easier to understand. Explain how to apply it practically, yeah?” He offers Dorian a smile. Dorian tries but doesn't quite manage to smile back. “The Qunari took that truth and... made their laws around it. A Qunari is a Qunari so long as they have a place. You do as you're told, and then you're fine. Hissrad knew this. Hissrad also knew that if he didn't do what he was told, he would die, would lose his soul. I know this doesn't make much sense to you, but I'm not Hissrad. I can't be, because he died in the Storm Coast. I can't... I can't carry on and pretend to be him, with you or anyone else. _It's not my place._ ” 

“Are you leaving, then?” Dorian asks, because that's how it sounds to him, and he's irritated at himself for the curl of sadness about it. 

“No, I'm staying with the Inquisition,” Bull replies, missing the implications entirely, “I... the Boss, she gets it. She's not Qunari but she's not just Vashoth, either. She's Valo-Kas. The Valo-Kas understand what Tal-Vashoth like me are going through, they want to help. And I can't just... walk away from Corypheus and his bullshit, either. I mean, there ain't a hole in the sky anymore, but shit is fucked up still and someone has to do something about it. So I'll stay and I'll help, but I'm still looking for my place.” He hesitates slightly. “It's not that I don't want to touch you, Dorian. I do. A lot. Sex is a tool and it's a good tool to figure out what's inside your head, and I need that, I think.” He offers a small smile as he swallows hard. “But it'd be shitty to fall into bed with you, when you think you're falling into bed with someone _else_. That feels wrong, and you deserve better.” 

Dorian offers a thin smile in return. 

“I insist, you are a decent man,” he says, shrugging. “And I'm... not, really. I'm just selfish, perhaps. You needn't indulge me. Just because I liked sex with... Hissrad,” the name sounds foreign in his voice, and Dorian feels a twitch of irritation as he realizes it fit perfectly on Gatt's tongue. He wonders if he'll ever stop regretting not hunting down the smart mouth elf and give him a piece of his mind. “I don't... see what's the complication here, really, if you want sex and I'm not wholly opposed to the idea.” 

“Because this isn't just about what I want,” Bull replies, in that treacherously gentle voice of his that always makes Dorian's insides churn unpleasantly and wish he'd never notice it in the first place. “This is about what you want, too. You've been a good friend to me, Dorian, but you've been a good friend to be for Hissrad's sake. I want... I want to be your friend, too. And I want to give you what you want. But if what you want is... well, him, I can't.” 

Dorian stares up at the earnest, sincere look in Bull's eye and the witty deadpan dies in his throat, shriveling up like weeds in winter. 

He wishes he'd never noticed Bull's earnestness, much like he wishes he'd never noticed his kindness. There are a great many things that he would be quite happy to never have noticed, Dorian realizes, feeling air clogging his lungs, his throat closing up as if by a claw. 

_Oh_ , he thinks, swallowing hard as he realizes exactly what is happening, and the realization is all the more terrifying because he remembers the last time he felt this way. Suddenly, he's seventeen again, terrified and stubborn and hopeful despite it all. Suddenly, he knows precisely what he wants, and yet also why he's not going to get it. 

Because Dorian has never loved anyone without bringing ruin to them, one way or another. Look at his parents, his father, so much love and devotion and it was all for naught. Look at Rilienus, the wincing no else notices because no one else knows what to look for. Others, still, smaller fancies, quieter promises, all of them broken and taken and gone. 

“What do you want, Dorian?” Bull asks him, tender and honest and too raw to bear, and Dorian would laugh, he would, were he not also wishing so keenly to die. 

And yet, for a moment there, he hesitates. He knows what he needs to do, after all. He knows what he should say, because clearly what matters is what Bull wants and nothing else, but even so, for a moment there, Dorian falters. Dorian imagines himself having the courage he knows damn well he does not, to bear himself back and answer Bull's honesty in kind. After all, if Bull is willing to sort out his mess of Qunari death-but-not-really feelings, surely he would be willing to help Dorian sort his own, right? And maybe, just maybe, beyond his ridiculous insistence that Dorian is somehow a better person than he knows himself to be, maybe he would be game to try. 

Maybe, beneath all that ludicrous good will, Bull could find it in himself to love him back. 

Maybe, for once, his love wouldn't be poison. 

Maybe. 

But probably not, Dorian decides, abruptly, as the cold, hard truth that he's not strong or brave or willing to thrust a gnarled knot of feelings he barely understands himself, into the hands of someone going through the mother of all identity crises. Bull insists on believing he is a better person than he knows himself to be, but Dorian reckons, he should at least try to live up to that expectation. He realizes, between one breath and the next, that given Bull's attitude and intentions, it would be entirely too easy for him to misunderstand the nature of Dorian's feelings. 

“I... don't really understand,” he says, which is true enough, “how you can be dead but not, and be yourself, but not who you were before. I don't... all I know is this. You're my friend, you were my friend yesterday and I hope you'll still be my friend tomorrow. And if I need to get to know you all over again, that's okay. People change, Bull. Humans change, all the time. You think you know them and then they're entirely different people. So... perhaps I do understand, in a way.” Dorian offers a sharp smirk, stepping forward and reaching out a hand to touch Bull's face. When Bull's hand covers his own, Dorian feels something crack inside his chest, fracturing like a hairline, splintering all the way to the middle. He smiles. “You're still a daft cow, either way.” 

Bull grins, the same goofy, stupid grin of his that follows after a particularly well-placed pun. 

“Surly Vint,” he says, voice fond and happy in a way that digs itself deep under Dorian's skin. “...we're good, then?” 

“Of course we are,” Dorian lies, so sincerely, he's certain Bull will never notice. “Though we could be better. If you know what I mean.” 

Bull laughs, loud and bright. 

“Starting to think you only like me for the sex, Dorian,” he says, teasing. 

“Well,” Dorian replies, smirk mean and words meaner, though not for the reasons one would expect, “it's certainly not for the puns.” 

  


* * *

  


“You are Qunari,” Vivienne begins, lips pressed into a thin line. “You are a mage. The task set before you is difficult enough, without being discredited as merely an amusement.” 

“So...” Herah replies, sitting on the divan across from her and trying not to fidget. “I'm screwed, basically.” 

Vivienne presses her lips harder, quiet for a moment, but before Herah can apologize, she sighs. It's almost... wary, and her expression is not something Herah has seen on her face before. 

“Normally, yes, that would be the case,” Vivienne says, shaking her head slightly. “But this is you we are talking about, and there is nothing normal about you, Inquisitor. You have the makings of a true leader, when the situation calls for it, you do not favor rash decisions and you have good instincts, when it comes to judging people. This is merely another trial for you to overcome, one I believe you will do as well in as you have all the ones before.” Herah stares at her a moment, and Vivienne cracks a small, teasing smile. “You will, after all, have my help in this endeavor. I hope you've come to realize I do not tolerate failure, my dear.” 

Herah sets her jaw and nods solemnly. 

“I understand,” she says, sitting up straight. “I'm prepared to do what it takes. I'll train, I'll learn, I'll do what I must. Corypheus will _not_ harm the Empress under my watch, no matter what.” 

“Good,” Vivienne says, smiling that sharp smile of hers again, “then I believe our first order of business will be a trip to Val Royeaux. Please let me know when you're ready to depart.” 

“As soon as I get everyone ready,” Herah replies, nodding. “I reckon Dorian will stay behind, since Vyrantium is still getting settled but-” 

“That will not be necessary,” Vivienne interrupts, one eyebrow arched. “Since only you will be coming along.” 

“Oh,” Herah deflates slightly. She seems about to be ask something, but then thinks better of it, because she nods. “Alright.” 

“Good,” Vivienne smirks, “my tailor will be delighted by the challenge you shall pose to her.” 

  


* * *

  


“I don't think I can actually do this,” Dorian says, slumping into the bench next to the Inquisitor. 

“It's not so bad,” Herah says, in what she hopes it's a soothing tone, “at least they like you.” 

Dorian gives her a sideways look. 

“Bull said exactly the same thing,” he says, squinting, “and he was exactly as wrong.” When she arches an eyebrow, Dorian shudders out a sigh. “I woke up at two in the morning today, to console crying children. Crying children, Adaar. Do I look like someone who is particularly good at looking after children, crying or otherwise?” 

She snorts. 

“I can't exactly judge child-rearing skills on looks alone anymore,” she replies, nudging his shoulder with hers, “since... you know... Rilienus.” 

“Oh, Maker, don't get me started on him,” Dorian hisses irritably. “He's just... _urg_.” 

She offers a wane smile. 

“Now you sound like Cassandra,” she teased, and grinned a little harder when he shoved her shoulder. 

“Can I be spared any more talk about our Lady Seeker Pentaghast?” Dorian mutters sullenly, his mouth twisted into a wry smirk. 

“More?” Herah asks, eyebrows arched. 

“See, I'd tell you,” Dorian snorts, “you alone I'd tell, because who else I would? But not here. Here the walls have ears, connected to mouths, who'd speak enough a specific set of ears would hear, and while I'd very much like to die in my bed, I'd also rather it were in a couple decades, not tonight.” 

“You're patently ridiculous, did you know that?” Herah says, though her grin vanishes by degrees. “You'd really tell me anything, wouldn't you?” 

Dorian squints at her. 

“Am I going to have to make another ridiculous declaration for your sake?” He asks, snide in that way of his that Herah has learned means he's being sincere. “Haven't we gone through this already?” 

“Maybe I like being reminded,” Herah says, aiming for flippant and failing thoroughly. 

Dorian squints harder, before sighing so loud his shoulders slump. 

“Come along now,” he says, finishing his drink in one long gulp, “you're being morose and I already called dibs on that.” He offers a teasing smile. “Besides, imagine Mother Giselle's face when the rumors start flying that we left, together, for your tower.” 

“It's not my tower,” Herah mutters a little defensively, but she follows after him anyway. 

They demolish two bottles of wine while running through a surprisingly thorough list of complaints. Dorian whines about Rilienus and Vyrantium and magical theory. Herah hisses about Orlesian politics and Valo-Kas politics and Inquisition politics. 

“It's just...” she makes little choking motions with her hands. “I should know better, by now. There was a goddamn hole in the sky and they all were too busy arguing about treason and blame to actually get around fixing anything! Just!” She swings back the last of the bottle without an ounce of decorum. “ _Humans_.” 

Dorian chuckles wryly. 

“Ow,” he says, but doesn't actually argue. “We're... well, we're not very good, handling priorities.” 

He thinks of Bull, standing in the snowed in wastelands above Haven, trying to bare open his soul, and the flash of panic and uncertainty that made him lie to his face, at the last possible moment. Dorian is not proud of himself for it, but he's also aware it wasn't exactly a choice, either. 

Humans really are the worst at facing tough situations, he supposes, to the point it's somewhat miraculous they've survived this far, in the face of Blights and wars and everything that's so clearly enthused at the prospect killing them off. 

“Maybe that's why you were chosen,” he goes on, teasing but sincere, “because you're not human.” 

“Maybe I wasn't chosen,” she snaps back, a hint of bitterness woven into her voice, “maybe I was just the only one who ducked, when everyone else tried to take time to argue about impending death.” 

“The Maker works in mysterious ways,” Dorian teases, and dodges a swipe of her hand with a snicker. “It is rather convenient, isn't it? If it's a clear display of the Maker's will, well, who would doubt? And if it's not, theology tells us quite clearly that the Maker shows Himself most when He doesn't seem to be there at all.” 

“Your God sounds like a very petulant child,” Herah says bluntly, lips twitching in annoyance. “And I don't say that just because I'm personally involved. At least the Dalish Gods care about them, give them something back for their troubles. They didn't leave them willingly, over a tantrum when they showed themselves to be exactly what they'd been made to be.” 

Dorian gives her a shrewd look, and Herah feels her face heat up slightly. 

“Does Sera know you're going Dalish on her?” Dorian asks, one eyebrow arched. “Because if not, I must say, your courting rituals confound me.” 

“ _Everything_ about women confounds you,” Herah replies quickly, snidely, and she loves Dorian all the more because he laughs, rather than chide her for it. 

“True enough,” he says, without bite as he leans back to sprawl comfortably on the tiny cot she had sneaked into the tower for those nights where sleeping in the Inquisitor's bed seems like a personal affront. “But I happen to be excellent at getting laid, so perhaps you should not dismiss my advice so readily.” He pauses, dramatically, for effect. “Because you're still trying to get laid, yes? That is in fact one thing that hasn't changed thus far?” 

“It's... complicated.” 

Dorian arches an eyebrow. 

“Uh huh.” 

Herah clicks her tongue. 

“Weren't you going to tell me about Cassandra?” 

  


* * *

  


“Rilienus,” Casandra says, falling into step with the sour-looking mage. 

“Lady Pentaghast,” he replies and though he does not stop, he slows down just enough the hem of his robes is no longer billowing with each step. 

Casandra tries to stop the twitch of her eyebrow at the honorific, because she knows - _she knows_ \- he’s using it for the sake of watching her twitch. The fact his lips shift ever so slightly into a faint smirk when she fails to hide it do nothing for her mood on that regard. 

“What are you doing?” She asks instead, without preamble, because she’s learned the less leeway she gives him to be obnoxious, the less murder-inducing the conversations are. 

She does not, however, question the fact there _are_ conversations. He's irascible, provocative and entirely too fond of being contrary, just on principle, but to her, unlike most of the people she's aware of, he's also unflinchingly polite. This of course means that when someone needs something from Vyrantium, they come to _her_ about it; be it Cullen complaining about his Templars being forbidden entry to their tower, Josephine demanding clarification on trade agreements, or any other poor soul who's had the misfortune of trying to get Rilienus to do something. And of course it has to be Rilienus, because when asked, Dorian simply points people in his direction and refuses to engage entirely. Cassandra thinks he does it because he's certain people will not bother with trivialities, if the price to pay for the inconvenience is to deal with Rilienus. She also thinks people are perfectly willing to send her in their stead because they figure at least she can kill him if he pushes too hard. 

Unaware of her thoughts, Rilienus sighs. 

“I lost a bet, yesterday, so Dorian will leave to frolic away with the goddamn ox and do Maker knows what in the Fallow Mire today,” he sighs again, shoulders slumping somewhat. “And I’ll be here, trying - key word, _trying_ \- to teach basics of elemental conjuration, which of course no one thinks they need, since they’ve been conjuring elementa since forever.” 

“So why teach it then?” Casandra asks, because she can never _not_ ask, and she has an inkling that he likes that, despite it all. 

“For the exact same reason that you and the Commander drill every new recruit in basic sword techniques, whether they claim they were a Templar, a stable hand or a goddamn tavern bard, before they joined.” Rilienus rolls his eyes. “Because everyone needs to keep the basics fresh, and you can always learn new, more efficient ways to do them. Besides, I refuse to commit myself to actual magical theory lectures when I know I will have to stop every five seconds to explain minutiae, because the so call masters of the basics don’t actually know _shit_ about the basics.” 

Casandra nods slowly, because that actually makes sense. Then she frowns, because she remembers that Rilienus lies. He might lie a lot less to her than others, but still. 

“And you’re going to prepare this lecture,” she says, squinting a bit, “on the battlements?” 

“What.” Rilienus stares at her. “No, I’m going to the library and hiss at Fiona to stop hogging the only available copy of _Treaties of Dubral_.” 

Casandra squints some more. 

“The shortest route from your tower to the library would be through the main hall,” she points out, suspicious. 

Rilienus stares at her. 

“That route also includes going through Solas’ lair of screaming matches about improbable if not downright impossible magical theory,” Rilienus replies, shuddering. “Last time I passed through they were arguing spirit manipulation and Vivienne had dropped all Orlesian pretense and gotten downright Ferelden in her swearing.” He shakes his head. “I dislike useless arguing, thus I make my best to avoid temptation.” 

She doesn’t even pretend not to snort acidly. 

“That implies there’s such a thing as useful arguing.” 

“Yes,” Rilienus replies snottily, “there is. The kind that is amusing.” He gives her a smirk. “For me anyway.” 

“Of course,” Cassandra sighs. “Morris needs your monthly requisition report by tomorrow evening at the latest.” 

Rilienus' expression sours considerably at that. 

“Maker damn him, Dorian hasn't delivered it yet?” He scoffs before she can answer. “Of course he hasn't. Very well, I guess I will have to walk into Solas' chosen argument of the day.” 

“You enjoy it,” Cassandra can't help but point out, if only to watch him splutter indignantly. 

“I'm a cleric, Lady Pentaghast, of course I despise senseless animosity,” he lies with ease, and offers a taunting smirk in reply. “Well, a Tevinter cleric, that is. I suppose you Andrasteans must do everything backwards.” 

“Run along, _Brother_ Rilienus,” Cassandra snorts, rolling her eyes with a flourish. “I've taken enough of your time.” 

“Yes, you have,” he retorts, and then offers another of those taunting smirks that drive Cullen into stuttering, spluttering fits of swearing, but that Cassandra is reluctantly willing to admit suit his features rather well. “But I'm feeling lenient, so I believe buying me a drink will be sufficient penance for your sins.” 

Cassandra barks a short, tired laugh. 

“Just go already.” 

Rilienus, because he's Rilienus, offers an entirely too elaborate bow before he does. 

  


* * *

  


“What.” 

Bull stares down at Dorian like he's grown an extra head. 

“I volunteered us to do Solas a favor,” Dorian repeats, rolling his eyes at him. “We'll-” 

“No, no,” Bull interrupts, letting himself fall on his bed with a snort. “I heard you the first time. I'm just... surprised.” 

Dorian shrugs. 

“You don't have to come along if you don't want to,” he replies, pointedly not looking at Bull's face. “I did volunteer you without asking first.” 

“Hell, you know I'm up for it,” Bull grins, bright and easy, and Dorian ignores the twitch under his ribs at the sight. “I just. I thought you and Solas had a fight.” 

“Theoretical disagreement,” Dorian corrects airily, “I happen to follow the observable laws of the universe, he likes to believe Spirits can do anything. Magic has rules for a reason, you know?” 

“Right,” Bull says, because he really doesn't and he'd be quite happy not to find out. “But I'm not sure how a screaming match ended up in... well, whatever this is gonna be.” He squints a bit. “I thought... well, with Vyrantium and everything, that you would cut down your time in the field.” 

Dorian purses his lips in thought. 

“Vyrantium needs me, but so does the Inquisition,” he waves a hand dismissively, “it's all a matter of finding the right balance.” Bull is still giving him that small squinty look of his, the one Dorian realizes means he wants to believe him, he does, but he's not dumb. Dorian sighs. “Truth be told, we're running out of corpses up in Haven's ruins. The ones I can pull up without... you know, bringing down the damn mountain again. So there's that, too.” 

Bull laughs, and Dorian's smile relaxes by slivers. 

“I'll go get ready, then.” 

  


* * *

  


Bull stares at Shokrakar with a vague sense of dread in his gut. She is, as always, sitting on the floor and writing something or another, looking placid and as about as threatening as a summer breeze. It only makes ants crawl in circles under his skin. He clears his throat, but stops before he can say what he's thinking, which is eminently impolite, and instead takes another extra five seconds to compose something not quite full of swearing. 

“You want me to sit in your lectures,” he settles for, at long last, squinting to the best of his ability. “Your lectures about the Qun,” he adds, when he doesn't get the reaction he expected – though he's not quite sure what that'd be. “Your lectures about the Qun for _children_.” He blinks. “You want me to sit down and talk about the Qun with children.” 

“Don't be ridiculous,” she says, snorting acidly. “As _Ben-Hassrath_ you were a priest in name only, what could you possibly have to tell children about the Qun?” She snorts again, before he can sigh in relief and say something unfortunate. “I want you to sit down and _listen_ as the children and I discuss the Qun.” 

Bull blinks again. Then a third time when he fails to wake up from what must surely be a surreal dream brought on by too much drinking and too much spice with dinner. 

“ _Why?_ ” He asks, voice slightly high pitched, when the surreal dream refuses to end of its own volition. 

“Because,” she says, finally looking up and pinning him in place with the weight of her stare, “I said so.” 

Bull opens his mouth to argue. 

Shokrakar's eyes narrow a sliver. 

Bull shuts his mouth without making a sound. 

“And make sure you're presentable and _not_ hangover,” she adds crisply, “I expect you to at least set a good example.” Shokrakar nods sharply and turns her eyes back to her papers. “Upon your return from the Mire,” she says, in that easy, commanding voice of hers that slithers up Bull's spine and wraps itself snugly around his brain, “you will attend twice a week, when the Inquisitor does not otherwise require your presence.” 

Bull swallows hard. 

“Yes, ma'am.” 

Because really, what else is he supposed to say? 

  


* * *

  


“Well,” the taller woman says, smirking, “here's where we part ways, I reckon.” 

The younger girl, hiding beneath a thick travel coat, startles badly at the unexpected proclamation. 

“What?” She demands, when she finds her voice, panic coloring her tone, as she clenches her hands tightly on the reins of her mount. “Magister Tilani-” 

“Paid me to get you to Skyhold,” the other replies, arching both eyebrows tauntingly. “Quite handsomely, too, considering we're three weeks from the nearest port and I don't particularly enjoy mountains. There's Skyhold,” she goes on, pointing at the impressive sight of the fortress looming across the valley below. “Which I swore a solemn oath to take you to.” 

“We're not in Skyhold yet!” The girl retorted, temper flaring slightly. “Isabela, you promised-” 

“You see that?” Isabela points out abruptly to the sprawling tent-town on the west side of the river. “Those are horns. Horns mean _Qunari_.” When the girl merely stares at her blankly, Isabela sighs loudly. “Look, kid. I like Tilani, okay? She's cute. But she sure as hell isn't cute enough to make me deal with Qunari for free. You're safe, you're sound, and if you stick to the army side of the encampment and deliver your letters to the first important-looking person you meet, you'll be _fine_.” 

The girl purses her lips, scowling. Isabela thinks she's going to argue – she likes to argue, this one, it's one of the few things that made the wretched trip bearable, well that and finally paying her ledger with Tilani, that's nice too – but she surprises her by extending a hand out abruptly. When Isabela fails to grab it immediately, the girl shakes it exasperatedly. 

“Thank you for your help,” she says, when Isabela grasps the smaller hand in her own. 

“That wasn't help, sweetheart,” Isabela replies, because it makes her fluster and that is cute, too. “I did nothing I wasn't paid for.” 

The girl flushes, right on cue. 

“Yes, well,” she says, grip slacking before she gathers her wits and shakes Isabela's hand firmly. “Thank you for your services.” 

“My pleasure,” Isabela laughs, and leers just because the girl splutters just so. “Well, most of it.” 

“Good day, Captain,” the girl says briskly, glaring under her hood. 

“It's Admiral, now,” Isabela points out, grinning as the glare darkens a little. “Do me a favor, if you feel like it,” she says, just as the girl starts down the road. “Tell Varric I said hi.” 

The girl looks back with a small scowl before sighing. 

“I will.” 

Isabela grins. 

“You can also pet his chest hair for me,” she adds, as the flush returns with a vengeance, “he'd like that.” 

The girl tightens the reins and her mount breaks into a short gallop, then, saving her from actually having to answer. Isabela's laughter rings in her ears, and, she suspects, will continue to do so for a while. 

  


* * *

  


“Talking helps,” Cole explains, sitting on the desk as Rilienus rummages around Dorian's makeshift office for the requisitions he absolutely did not send out before running away to the Mire. “Gives it name, shapes it, narrows it down. You cannot fight what you cannot name.” 

Rilienus pretends to read the same line five times, before he stands up and gives Cole a cool look. 

“You seem to have mistaken me for someone who has enemies left to fight,” he says, which is true enough, but somehow does not have the desired effect. Cole does not wilt under the glare, and Rilienus swallows back a snarl, because he should have never given his word to Dorian that he wouldn't hurt the little pale abomination. “You're twenty years too late, for talking to do any good. It is done. I am _fine_.” 

“You're still angry.” Rilienus crumples the paper in his hand. Cole curls up around himself, pulling his knees to his chest. “You're angry at Dorian. You're angry at yourself. You're angry at Arcturus-” 

“ _Do not speak that name!_ ” Rilienus swears as he drops the page, now on fire, to the ground and stomps on it with a snarl. “Get. Out.” 

“I want to help,” Cole insists, eyes sad. “I want to make it stop hurting.” 

Rilienus snarls and drops pretenses, reaching out a hand to grab Cole by the collar of his shirt. He then drags the demon-spirit-boy- _thing_ down two flights of stairs and unceremoniously throws him out the western door to the battlements. 

“And _stay_ out!” Rilienus snaps, before slamming the door shut. 

  


* * *

  


Ellana Lavellan has never seen so many people in one place at the same time. The petite elf clutches her staff close to her chest and tries her best to keep out of the way of the river of people coming and going down the sinuous road up Skyhold's entrance. She's not, truth be told, entirely sure what she's supposed to do, now that she's finally reached the fortress. When she'd set out – sneaked out, her mind whispered treacherously – to find her brother, she'd had only a half baked idea that, if Mahanon had somehow managed to survive his mission at the Conclave, then perhaps he might have joined the Inquisition. Now that won't explain why he hasn't bothered to write home, but times are tough and maybe... maybe he needs help. He _needs_ her. And the Clan needs him, too. The way things are going, back home... she– _they_ might not have a home to go back to. 

But now here she is, all alone and doing her best to ignore the scornful, distrusting glares about her ears and her clothes and her staff, and she's not even sure where to start. 

“It's a bit overwhelming, isn't it?” 

Ellana startles and sparks fall from the tip of her staff as she does, at the sound of a voice close to her. She turns to find a young woman barely taller than her standing behind her, holding the reins of a horse in her hand and a staff in the other. Though the hood of her cloak obscures her features, Ellana can't help but notice she's very pretty. 

“Skyhold,” the girl says, nodding at the road up the mountain. “It's one thing to want to come here, but it's another entirely to actually _come_ here, isn't it?” 

Ellana laughs quietly, shoulders sagging. 

“Yeah, that's about it,” she says, shaking her head and offering a smile. “I'm Ellana.” She pauses for a moment, swallowing hard. “First of Clan Lavellan.” 

The other hesitates a moment, before nodding. 

“I'm Gina,” she says, then offers a small shrug. “Regina, really, but Gina's fine.” 

Ellana knows better than to ask for a family name – she must have one, she reckons, the brooch holding her cloak in place is silver and she's pretty in that careful way all nobles are – so she just nods and widens her smile accordingly. 

“That's a lovely name,” she says. “Have you come to join the Inquisition?” 

Gina shrugs again, harder this time. 

“Perhaps,” she replies, turning her head to stare up at the imposing structure. “If they'll have me.” 

“Oh, they'll take almost _anyone_ , from what I've heard,” Ellana says cheerfully, only realizing a moment later how that sounds. “I mean... that is... Oh, crud.” 

Gina stares down at the elf for a moment, before she swallows back a small chuckle. Ellana blushes harder as she hears it. 

“I... I don't always think things through, before they're out of my mouth,” she says, “sorry.” The elf brightens up quickly, though. “I'm sure they'll be glad to have you, though. You're nice.” 

Gina is not quite certain of that, but then, she decides not to question it. 

“You've come to join as well, then?” She asks instead, entirely happy to shift the focus of the conversation away from herself. 

Ellana sighs. 

“Not really,” she says, deflating slightly. “I'm looking for my brother.” She frowns slightly. “Well, I would, if I knew how to go about it. I'm usually pretty good at finding things, but then I'm usually finding things in, you know, _forests_.” 

“You just need to find the right person to ask,” Gina says, a lot more confidently than she really feels, considering she's been trying to find the right person to ask for the better part of a week now. “Have you reached out to the people in charge?” 

“They told me to get in line,” Ellana sighs. “Granted, that line got me food, but... no.” She blinks. “Speaking of, have you eaten? Are you hungry? I still have some rations if you want them.” 

Gina blinks back. 

“Ah. I'm fine, thank you.” 

“Are you sure?” Ellana presses, “because it's good! I mean, it's stew and it looks gross, but it actually tastes pretty good. ...well, it did when it was hot and now it's cold so maybe not. Uh. Sorry, rambling again.” 

Despite everything, Gina finds herself smiling sincerely for the first time since she set out from Tevinter. 

“You're a very silly girl, aren't you?” She says, but it's kind, rather than mocking. 

Ellana flinches nonetheless. 

“I'm sorry,” she says, “I've taken enough of your time as it is. I should-” 

“Forgive me,” Gina interrupts, licking her lips. “I too sometimes do not think properly before I speak. I meant no disrespect.” She sighs, feeling guilty as Ellana continues to look at her warily. “I have... to deliver some letters, to some important people. Maybe you could come with me, and you can ask them about your brother.” 

  


* * *

  


Sleep is a tenuous, elusive beast, without lyrium to coerce it into place. Cullen is awake the moment the door to his office clicks open - he doesn’t lock it, can’t afford to, not when there’s runners at all hours, coming and going and leaving all sorts of (bad) news on his desk, for him to see in the morning - but by the time he’s sat up properly, the other door has click shut. Someone passing by, he supposes, though he’s not sure why they would go through the tower instead of just crossing the courtyard. 

Three hours later, the door clicks open again, and by the time Cullen has sat up, the one opposite has clicked shut. 

And then it begins, a most obnoxious ritual, every night, late on past the dusk guard shift, the doors click and Cullen sits. Then the midnight guard shifts, and the doors click again. 

Every night, like clockwork. 

If he were actually asleep, he’d be considerably more upset with the nightly ghosting through his office, but as it is, he’s mainly curious. He lays in bed each night, counting his own breaths and weighting the exhaustion against the buzzing at the edges of his perception, imagining all sorts of things crossing his office in the middle of the night. Childish, perhaps, but childish he’s found is the kind of thought that doesn’t easily derail into screaming and madness and death. And he’s so very tired of those. 

So he lays back and imagines, who ghosts through his tower every night, making no sound beyond the click of the doors. He almost doesn’t want to find out, to be honest, he enjoys the game that much. So it’s purely an accident, that he catches sight of his mysterious ghost one night, as he leans against the window, baring his sweat-drenched face against the cold mountain breeze. 

Cullen stares. 

There are nearly a thousand people living in Skyhold, by now, between visiting dignitaries, messengers, the Chargers, the Circle mages, the Vyrantium mages and the small army of servants that keep everything going as it should. But while there’s a few that command that challenging arrogance in their gait, there’s only one of them whose hair trails dramatically after him. 

He watches, the next three days, if only to confirm the dreadful truth, and he feels cheated to have found even a modicum of comfort in Rilienus’ presence, albeit without his knowledge. 

On the fifth night, after his sour discovery, Cullen climbs down the stairs and sets out to follow. He finds Rilienus standing amidst the rubble of the worst damaged section of Skyhold’s outer wall. There is no blood in sight, but Cullen’s spine tingles as he approaches, with the telltale feeling of magic in the air. 

“What are you doing?” He demands, coming to stand at the very edge of the walkway. 

From the angle he’s standing on, Rilienus looks very much like a ghost - or a demon, his mind whispers viciously - eyes sunken and expression grim. 

“What I always do,” Rilienus says as a reply, tone bland as he turns his back on Cullen, purposely. “Fixing someone else’s blunders.” 

He raises a layer of rubble, hand and staff guiding rocks the size of his head up and towards the gaping hole he’s standing on, slowly but surely compacting them back into the wall’s structure. 

“Is that so?” Cullen asks, eyes narrowed, because he wants to believe the Tevinter rubs him the wrong way because of something more tangible and less shameful than withdrawal-induced irritability and straight up prejudice. 

Rilienus looks over his shoulder but his expression is nearly invisible in the dark. 

“It’s what I do, Commander,” he says, tone mocking, “I fix things.” Cullen continues to stare, however, and so Rilienus sighs warily. “These stones have soaked up magic for centuries. It's why your repairs take so long, your craftsmen are focusing on the stone, but no one is focusing on the magic. It needs to be harmonized back into place, or the weakness will remain and the walls will crumble back down eventually.” 

“If that's the case,” Cullen snorts, “you could do this at a time when it doesn't appear to be sabotage.” 

He's still not wholly sure it isn't, despite assurances from both Dorian and the Herald. Rilienus just has that kind of effect on people. 

“Any time I chose to do this would look like sabotage,” Rilienus retaliates, as if reading his mind. “I have one of those faces.” 

Cullen turns to leave, then, angry and tired, and the sound of Rilienus' laughter trailing after him does nothing to make him feel better. Neither does requesting a report on the status of the repairs and having them come back perfectly fine. 

  


* * *

  


“You don't actually have to carry me, you know?” Dorian snorts, but doesn't actually fight when Bull sits him on the crook of his elbow, reaching out to hold onto a horn to keep his balance. “I can survive a little muck and water. Granted, these boots can't, so don't think it's not appreciated. But still.” 

“Yeah,” Bull says, grinning, “but you didn't have to come up with an excuse to get me the fuck out of Skyhold either, and you did.” Dorian splutters, cheeks flushing slightly, and Bull laughs. Not the roaring, loud laugh that always follows a bad pun, but a quieter, softer kind. The kind that makes Dorian and all his newfound, unwanted revelations twitch uncomfortably inside his skull. “I appreciate that.” 

Dorian looks pointedly away, towards the Veil fire beacons lit all around the swamp, and shrugs. He's still not quite sure what to do with the complicated, knotted feelings in his gut, except not share them with Bull, because that would end poorly. He'd swallowed his pride, after that first conversation, and talked it out with Rilienus, who had been utterly unhelpful in all ways, as usual. And then he'd buried himself in Vyrantium, which was easy, since running a Circle is actually more work than he'd ever thought possible. In the end though, he'd chosen the tried and tested method of not wallowing about it. 

It would go away on its own, he's certain, if only he ignores it for long enough. 

Still, it can't go away fast enough, he thinks, considering the time Bull spends in his company not naked tends to involve a lot of talking, and Dorian finds that carefully choosing each word is an exhausting endeavor. 

“You had that look in your face,” he says, sniffing disdainfully. “The Woe Is Me, Woe Is The Qun one.” 

“I do not have a look like that!” Bull laughs, more so when Dorian shifts about to sit more comfortably on his arm. 

“You absolutely do, it's disgusting.” Dorian sighs theatrically. “Dire measures were required.” 

“You're good friend, Dorian,” Bull says, grinning at him. 

Dorian leans a bit more heavily onto the horn he's holding. 

“I _know_ ,” he says, one eyebrow arched, “about damn time anyone cared to notice!” 

  


* * *

  


As luck would have it, it was because Gina stayed with Ellana, that they get to meet the Inquisitor. 

After weeks of mingling about the camp in the valley – and one memorable occasion in which a bunch of Ferelden refugees tried to start a fight because the two of them were mages, and some burly Qunari stepped in to stifle it before it could escalate – neither has made much progress in their attempts to actually get inside Skyhold proper. 

Then the sea of people is parting, and before Gina knows exactly what's happening, there is a massive red hart approaching them. 

“Have I met you somewhere before?” The rider, a tall Qunari woman, asks as she steps closer to them, and it takes Gina a moment to realize the question is aimed at Ellana. 

“I don't think so, no,” the elf replies, blinking, “I mean, I reckon I'd remember someone like you.” She frowns. “But... maybe you've met my brother?” She asks, eyes wide. “He looks a lot like me, we're twins and all. And he was at the Conclave.” 

“Inquisitor?” Vivienne asks, sharp but not quite chiding, not yet. 

Gina swallows hard and steps forward, fueled by the sudden revelation and Ellana's petrified silence. 

“If... I may be so bold,” she says, licking her lips. “Your worship, may I have a moment? I've come from Tevinter, on behalf of Magister Tilani. I have-” 

“Sure,” Herah replies, smiling easily and summarily ruining Gina's carefully improvised speech. Vivienne tuts disapprovingly, but then realizes Herah's shoulders haven't slumped yet, and she refrains from comment. “Come along now, we can talk as soon as I drop my mount at the stables. News from Tevinter are always welcome.” 

Gina stares at her. After days of arguing with grunts who know nothing, being sneered at every turn, and realizing she has no idea how to fix any of it, the fact the whole situation seems to be sorted so neatly is somewhat surreal. Then Gina bows politely, impulsively reaches out to hold Ellana's hand and sets out to follow the Inquisitor up the winding road towards Skyhold proper. No one stops them, not even the tired, recalcitrant guard Captain that has been deflecting Gina's inquiries every day. 

At some point, Gina realizes that Ellana's fingers are entwined with her own, and she's holding her hand just as tightly. 

  


* * *

  


“What happened down there?” Vivienne asks Herah as their mounts are taken by Dennet's ever growing collection of stable hands. 

“You know I don't remember much about the Conclave,” Herah admits, passing along the reins and giving Vivienne a shrewd look. “But when I saw that girl, I got a flashback. I still haven't figured out what it means, but I know she's important. Or maybe her brother. I'd like to look into it.” 

“That's not what I meant, my dear,” Vivienne replies, one eyebrow arched. “And I think you know it, too.” 

Herah smiles, and at the precise angle too. 

“I'm practicing our lessons,” she says, and manages with some effort not to ruin it by grinning like she wants to. “Practice makes perfect.” 

Vivienne nods. That is high praise indeed, as Herah has come to know. 

“Be sure to tell me how it turns out, then,” Vivienne says, a perfectly angled smile of her own hanging off her lips. “I expect good news, regardless.” 

  


* * *

  


Ellana keeps on holding onto Gina as they're led to a spacious room with a hearth, and they're left alone with a tray of snacks for what seems like eons. Ellana doesn't eat any of them, and neither does Gina, so they stand there by the fire, trying to process what has happened. 

“She's really tall,” Ellana says after a moment, causing Gina to choke on a laugh. “Like, really tall! I didn't know people came in that size.” 

“You've seen Qunari before,” Gina replies, nudging her shoulder teasingly. “Got saved by a few of them just this week, even!” 

“Yeah, but they weren't the _Inquisitor,_ ” Ellana points out, frowning. “They weren't shiny, either.” 

“Shiny?” 

“Glow-y. Wispy. Like echoes of the Fate, but warm.” Ellana blinks somewhat and turns to give Gina a searching look. “I think she's nice.” 

“I think it's in her job description to be nice,” Gina retorts dryly, lips twitching in amusement. “It's part of saving the world, I imagine.” 

“You'd be surprised,” Herah says, closing the door quietly behind her. She smiles as the two startle badly, Ellana dropping her staff in the process. “I do try to be nice, as much as possible, for what it's worth.” 

There's a moment of tense silence, before Gina squares her shoulders and steps forward. 

“That is good to hear, indeed,” she says, tilting her chin up, “because I might have lied to you.” 

“Gina!” Ellana hisses. 

Herah merely tilts her head to the side. 

“I do come from Tevinter, and I do bring letters with me, but they're not for you. They're for Dorian Pavus.” She swallows hard. “I need to deliver them personally, but the people in the camp wouldn't let me through... and Ellana has gotten nowhere in her search for her brother. Her plight is more urgent than mine, and when you recognized her, I just. I lied.” 

Herah's lips twitch slightly as she studies them both. 

“Did Magister Tilani actually write those letters?” She asks, because given their history, she won't risk another ill-advised attempt from Dorian's father to reach out to him. 

“Yes,” Gina replies, “she's friends with Dorian, and me, I'd like to think. They're in all honestly probably about me, more than anything else. It is purely a personal matter and should not concern you, but perhaps you could spare that time listening to what Ellana has to say instead?” 

  


* * *

  


“Let me see if I understand,” Vivienne says, frowning slightly at Herah. “The girl lied to you, admitted said lying, and you took her in anyway?” 

Herah shrugs. Well, she means to, but then she remembers she's not supposed to, so she just tilts her shoulders slightly, to give the impression of a shrug without actually shrugging. It's a lot harder than it looks, and Vivienne still doesn't seem convinced that she's sufficiently mastered the form. 

“Well, the thing is, there's two options here,” Herah points out, dropping the act entirely, and relaxing into her seat, despite Vivienne's slight glare of disapproval. “Either she is the kind of person who would lie to someone like me for the sake of someone she just met, and a Dalish elf at that, which means she's the kind of person I actually want to work with... or she's lying.” Herah arches an eyebrow, when Vivienne's frown does not lessen in the slightest. “If she's lying, she's a liability. Rilienus is many things, but he doesn't tolerate liabilities anywhere near his children.” 

“You're relying on a blood mage,” Vivienne scoffs, not quite impressed. 

“I'm doing what you told me to do,” Herah counters, now giving a good and proper shrug. “I'm expecting people to be, first and foremost, themselves.” 

Vivienne's lips twitch again, as if in a ghost of a grimace, but she shakes her head and swiftly changes the subject. 

“And the Dalish girl?” 

Herah licks her lips. 

“I'm pretty sure I met her brother, during the Conclave, but I can't really remember.” Herah pauses for a moment. “She's from Wycome. Well, wilderness around Wycome. Apparently things are... tense, over there. I told her I would help.” 

“And whyever would you do that?” Vivienne asks, and Herah marvels at the fact she can now recognize the edge of scrutiny in her tone as didactic, rather than callous. 

She's never been very close to Vivienne, mostly because the only person who ever seems close to Vivienne is Dorian, and all they do is argue any time they're within ten feet of each other. But her little expedition into Val Royeaux and the subsequent nightmare that was the tailor visit, it's caused Herah to notice things and sort of... get a feel for Vivienne. Herah has realized she knows a lot about Vivienne – what she likes, what she dislikes, where she comes from and what she thinks about most things – but that doesn't really translate well into knowing Vivienne. Not the way Herah has decided to get to know her Inner Circle, anyway. 

She trusts them with her life all the time, they should be able to trust her with themselves, too. And if they don't, she supposes, she just needs to work on it. 

So she smiles at Vivienne, rather than scowl or be offended by the remark. 

“Wycome might be tense, but it's nothing compared to what the Orlesian Court will be like, when we get there,” Herah says, because it's expected of her, and she understands that now, for all she wishes she didn't, “practice makes perfect.” 

“Hm, yes, I see your point,” Vivienne agrees after a moment, though Herah's expression sobers up as she goes on, “after all, if you fail, the Dalish will die. But they're Dalish, so it's not like anyone else will terribly mind if that happens.” 

Herah doesn't wince, because she's learned to hold back the most obvious tells in her expression. Vivienne sees it anyway. 

“Power the like you have comes with a price, my dear,” she tells her, voice self-assured and not really kind at all, “you're accountable to no one but your own conscience. Do remember that, before making any promises you're not prepared to keep.” 

  


* * *

  


“…you’re hired,” Dorian says, after the prerequisite five seconds to take in the scene. 

Rilienus makes a sound of outrage behind his brand new broken nose. The culprit is frozen in place, staring at her fist like it belongs to someone else, and then startles badly at the sound of Dorian’s voice. Then she frowns, green eyes narrowed as she stares at him. 

“I’m sorry?” 

Dorian smirks wryly. He wasn't entirely sure what he had been expecting, after Herah greeted him and Bull with news that there was someone waiting to meet him and that she'd seen fit to leave said person under Vyrantium's care unless he decided otherwise. 

This was going to be interesting. 

“Please don’t be,” he says, “you’re the first sensible person to do the sensible thing when facing this,” he pointed at Rilienus’ still prone form “insensible mess.” 

“I’m so sorry,” Gina says, as if just realizing what she’s done, attempting and then rethinking said attempt to help Rilienus back to his feet when he snarls silently at her. “I don’t know what came over me, I-” 

“I know _exactly_ what came over you,” Dorian replies, ignoring Rilienus’ dramatics and his wounded pride. “But still, I insist. You’re hired.” 

Gina stares. 

“…I don’t-” 

“They sent you here,” Dorian says briskly, one eyebrow arched, “because you’re Tevinter, but not the kind that should be killed and forgotten about, and apparently it is now my job to look after any and all Tevinter the Inquisition doesn’t know how to handle - see the bit about killing and forgetting. They sent you, because no one, and I do mean absolutely _no one_ , who is even remotely sane, would willingly come here, specifically. And I _know_ you’re sane, because Rilienus ran his mouth at you and you did the sane, sensible thing and punched his unbearable mug right where it hurts.” 

“…right,” she says, after a moment, giving him a measuring look and wondering if she’s going to have to punch him too. “I have a letter?” 

“That’s lovely,” Dorian replies without even bothering to dress up his tone one bit. “But the hows and the whys of your presence here are pretty insignificant right now. I insist, congratulations, you’re hired. Welcome to Vyrantium, I’ll make sure to go in depth about your new duties at the next staff meeting, which coincidentally started five minutes ago. Let’s go, I didn’t bully the Inquisitor for free use of her war room for nothing.” 

He glides out of the room with grace and poise and what she thinks might be sleep-deprived hysteria. There’s a moment of awkward silence as Rilienus sighs and finally pulls himself upright. 

“…how many staff members does Vyrantium have?” She asks, trepidation not yet settled into dread in the pit of her stomach. 

“Two,” Rilienus says tiredly, before squinting at her and sighing. “Well. Three, now.” 

“Yes,” Gina sighs back, that dread perfectly crusted around her insides now, “that’s what I thought.” 

  


* * *

  


“I have made a terrible mistake,” Dorian moans miserably, holding his head in his hands. He glares when Bull awkwardly pats his back. “She kicked me out of the tower. She's organizing paperwork. And she has charts, Bull. For _everything_.” When Bull doesn't look sufficiently shocked and horrified, Dorian leans in to whisper dramatically, “I think Rilienus actually _likes_ having her around.” 

“That serious, huh?” Bull snorts, because that sounds a lot like Krem and all the whining he did, when Grimm joined the Chargers and Bull put him to do numbers for them. “I suppose you need a stronger drink. Hold onto that thought.” 

Dorian squints suspiciously as he watches him go – it's not a bad view, he's got to admit – and doesn't stop until Bull presents him with a tankard the size of his head. It smells like toxic waste and he half expects the container to start sizzling and melting, any second now. 

“Well, go on now,” Bull says, in what he thinks it's a fairly encouraging tone. “That'll cheer you up.” 

Dorian takes a sip, still eyeing the concoction dubiously. 

Then he registers the burning at the same time his throat spasms in protest. 

He finishes choking with a violent cough and then stares at Bull, unamused. 

“ _Why_ would you even drink that?” He demands, glaring sullenly at the… the thing inside Bull’s tankard. 

Bull offers a small shrug in reply and takes a long swing of it, without flinching. 

“Sometimes you just need to get drunk,” he says, “ _really_ drunk.” 

“You’ve described the last ten years of my life, there,” Dorian deadpans, completely unmoved, “yet I’ve somehow managed to survive with my taste buds intact.” 

“It’s an acquired taste,” Bull defends. 

“Meaning you burned off your tongue enough on it, you can’t taste anything anymore.” Dorian sighs and turns to Cabot. “Help me educate this poor soul, will you? Two Radiant Dawns, please.” 

Cabot gives Dorian a long suffering look, sighs deeply and then vanishes, muttering under his breath. Bull watches the scene with an amused expression on his face. When he comes back, he brings puts goblets on the bar and goes off to wipe the other side of the table. 

“Sip,” Dorian says imperiously, “don’t chug.” 

Bull does as he’s told, taking a tentative sip of his drink and squints at it, unimpressed. It tastes sweet and fruity, and that’s nice, but he’s not really sure what the big deal is. Then he takes another sip and the alcohol kicks him behind the teeth so hard he swoons a bit. 

“Oooh,” he says, holding onto the bar for a second, while the world spins. 

“Mhm,” Dorian smiles, nursing his own goblet with a smug, contented smile. “And that’s how you get drunk, quick, without feeling like you scrapped your tongue with a cheese grater.” 

“It’s pink!” Bull bellows contently, swirling the goblet to watch the iridescent liquid change colors in the light. 

Dorian finds himself unable to contain a small, amused smile. 

“That too.” 

  


* * *

  


“The Circle of Minrathous was not run like this,” Gina mutters darkly, staring down at her water with a frown. “I don't think _any_ Circle has ever been run like this, to be honest.” 

“I've never been to a Circle, myself,” Ellana replies, shrugging, “so I wouldn't know. And even so, the only Circles I've ever heard about aren't Tevinter so... I'll take your word for it?” 

“He didn't even read the letters,” Gina mutters sullenly, “he's _nothing_ like his father.” 

“Who?” Ellana blinks, head tilted slightly to the side. 

Gina looks at her for a long moment and then very deliberately shrugs. 

“I suppose I shouldn't complain, it's a job that needs doing, and I'm fit to do it,” she says instead, smiling wryly when Ellana nods, rather than pushing. “Any news on your side?” 

Ellana's eyes dim a little. 

“No news on Mahanon, yet,” she says, voice melancholic, but she brightens easily. “But the Inquisitor has been kind enough to take an interest in matters back home. So that's good.” She shrugs. “I've been mostly helping in the camp and running errands. I mean, it's not an official job like yours, but I think it means I'm part of the Inquisition now.” 

Gina smirks. 

“Careful now, or they're gonna stuff you into one of those uniforms,” she says, snickering when Ellana sticks her tongue out at her. “You know, the ones with the silly hats?” Gina laughs at the expression on Ellana's face. “No hats, then. Although... you would look rather fetching in one of those scout cowls they like so much.” 

“You're being mean, Gina!” 

Gina shrugs elegantly. 

“I'm Tevinter, I think I'm entitled to.” 

  


* * *

  


Sera does not take kindly, to the Inquisitor's new training. 

Herah hadn't expected her to, to be honest, but still, arguing with Red Jenny is exhausting and almost as bad finding a beehive on her desk. 

It's only after spending hours in vain to find her, that Herah realizes how truly angry Sera is. 

  


* * *

  


“Are you going to tell me now?” Dorian asks, sprawled on the small bed like a cat luxuriating in the sun, “about the Graves? We're leaving tomorrow, after all.” 

Herah squints at him and procrastinates an answer by comparing his cat-like sprawl on her bed with Sera's. She's feeling masochistic, apparently. Then she sighs and drags herself to sit at the edge of the bed, where Dorian curls about to lay on his side and watch her face, and if she hadn't realized, in the Western Approach, that she trusts him as much as she trusts her sisters, she would be horrified by the fact the words are already building up in the back of her throat. 

“Do you remember Redcliff?” She asks, well aware it's a stupid thing to ask, considering Redcliff is the reason Dorian is lying on her bed, drinking her wine and prodding at her with questions sharp enough to feel like pointy sticks. “ _Our_ Redcliff?” 

“You make it sound like our honeymoon,” Dorian retorts dryly, one eyebrow arched. “A quaint little trip down memory lane to a pleasant afternoon full of everything except carnage. Though considering how much you enjoy carnage, I guess that's the bit that doesn't bother you that much.” She makes to shove at him, and he snorts, rolling away from her hand and nearly falling off the glorified cot. “Yes, I remember Redcliff. Try my best not to, though.” 

Herah doesn't blame him. She drops her head slightly, back bowing forward as she covers her face with her hands. 

“They were... there was red lyrium, in the Graves,” she says, because she's sat on this long enough, if Dorian is actively pushing for her to spit it out. It's the great downside of making friends, Herah thinks sourly, they end up caring back. “That first trip, they were taking people. Fairbank's people. And they were growing...” Dorian sits up and leans against her back, but now she's started and she's going to finish voicing it, even if her stomach is turning violently at the memory. “Sera went to open the cages – they were keeping them in _cages_ , Dorian – because... because they were locked and she's Sera and she was pissed all up until one of them grabbed her and I just.” Herah swallows hard. “I remembered Redcliff.” 

_The day you died? I ran out of arrows making them pay. Then it didn't matter anymore._

“Oh, Herah.” 

“It's stupid, right?” She laughs, bitter. “We stopped it. We made it so it never happened at all. Only, it's happening anyway, to someone else. Somewhere else. And there's politics and bullshit, and it's never just that easy, is it? I keep trying to do the right thing, but it's never enough. Someone always get mad, someone always gets hurt.” 

“She'll be back,” Dorian says, resting a hand on her back and then leaning his full weight on it, almost like a hug, but not. “She's... well, she's bloody stubborn, but her heart is in the right place. Besides, she didn't say goodbye. You know Sera wouldn't leave without saying goodbye.” Dorian pauses a moment, snorting. “And by goodbye I mean probably blowing up something.” 

“Don't you ever get tired of being right?” Herah says, looking over her shoulder with a small smirk. 

Dorian smirks back. 

“No,” he says snottily, before he wrinkles his nose, “but I do make up for it by being spectacularly wrong, when I am. Fantastically, write-a-tragic-opera levels of wrong.” 

  


* * *

  


**Author's Note:**

> [Follow me on tumblr at your own risk, I publish snippets of my WIPs every other day. Welcome aboard, if that's your thing.](http://temporaldecay.tumblr.com)
> 
> [You can also joins us in the Discord server if you want to yell at me directly.](https://discord.gg/6GmMhHn)


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